To Make a Skirt
by anotherathena
Summary: "I'm bored!" Angel Dust slumped backwards onto the bar, narrowly avoiding his cocktail. "And you come to me for entertainment, of course," Alastor said. "Did you have something in mind?" "No. Too bored to think." He hummed, the vibration carrying through the air. "Can you sew?" / Angel gets bored, Alastor teaches him how to sew. Friendship or pre-slash, read as you wish!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey! I'm used to posting to AO3, but I wanted to reach a wider audience, so I'm reuploading some stuff here. If I break any unspoken rules or do anything "wrong" I hope you'll let me know!

Just a few warnings: Some implied/referenced past homophobia sprinkled throughout this and following chapters. Implied/referenced drug use and sexual content, because Angel Dust. Other warnings will be included at the beginnings of individual chapters.

Hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 1: Choosing Your Project

Back on earth, Angel Dust didn't always have the best thing going on. Being a mafia prince sure had its perks—mainly the easy access to living bloodbags to bust at will and all the drugs he could take as long as he met the sale quota—but the expectations were one hell of a drag.

Heh, drag. Like what his dad nearly killed him for doing.

Cause that, of all things, was crossing the line. He could shoot a man point blank in the face as he begged for his life. He could aim a tommy vaguely towards a target and let it rip, no mind to the extra casualties, they'd send the family a bouquet and some cash to make up for it. He could smoke and snort and shoot up till he was blue in the face, sometimes literally, and as long as he wasn't too fucked up to do a job when he needed to nobody gave a shit. But throwing on a skirt, a wig, some eyeshadow, and a classy pair of stilettos to hang around a bar and maybe go home with a cute guy? _That_ was disgracing the family name. _That_ was the sin. _That_ was unforgivable.

That didn't stop him, though. He just got sneakier. Made some rules for himself. Went to bars farther out of town, tried not to go to the same one twice in a row, never made a schedule out of it, made sure to make a few dames a bit uncomfortable when his dad was around, never dared have an actual date or even see the same beau twice—that rule was the worst, especially when a couple guys were a real good fuck. But he managed. He kept his two worlds separate. Pops thought he scared him straight, his "dates" never suspected he was anything but a harmless twink in drag. Pops didn't need to know about the lacy panties he wore under his suits. His dates didn't need to know how he kept their wandering hands from brushing against the handgun in the holster at his thigh—unless those hands started wandering without his permission.

Course, it all came crashing down eventually. Double lives always did. Just the way of things, he guessed. But one syringe just a little too full—or maybe a couple of them, that night was still fuzzy—and he was flat on his face in the middle of Pentagram City with a brand-new bitching spider bod. God, he was _pink. _It had always been his favorite color, ever since he was just a little brat, but a couple years before he died Pops started saying it made him look like a fairy.

In Hell, he could do what he wanted. Everyone down below was a fucking deviant in their own right. Sure, he got pummeled every once in a while, but the beatings got fewer and farther between as Pentagram City caught up to politics up top. Joining Val's studio definitely helped, too.

So you could say he had a pretty sweet gig. All the sex, drugs, and murder he could stomach. Sometimes more. Imagine his surprise, then, when he found himself going clean in some rehab hotel, happy as a clam.

Still, it got a little dull sometimes. Only so much to do that actually distracted from the cravings.

"Angel, my dear fellow!" Alastor announced his presence at the bar with his tinny radio voice, interrupting Angel's thoughts. "Good to see you, very good indeed! And how have you been?"

Angel swiveled around on the barstool. The Radio Demon? He was always entertaining. "Al! I was just about to go lookin' for ya."

He tilted his head just a bit, ear giving the tiniest twitch. "Oh? Whatever for?"

"I'm bored!" He slumped backwards onto the bar, narrowly avoiding his cocktail. He was allowed up to three drinks a day to ration as he pleased, and he had actually been coming up under some days, so no one was allowed to judge him for taking his first before noon.

"And you come to me for entertainment, of course," he said. "Did you have something in mind?"

"No. Too bored to think."

He hummed, the vibration carrying through the air. "Can you sew?"

Angel lifted his head. "Uh, a little? Not great. Why?"

"My mother taught me when I was young. It kept me occupied. I thought it may do the same for you."

"You sew?"

"Yes. I had planned to teach you, but if you already know—"

"Teach me," Angel interrupted, sitting up straight. "I mean, I already know the basics, but that's just pokin' a needle through some clothes, right? You probably know all kinds of, of, of what…stitches? Cuts?" He leaned forward, upper arms resting against his knees, giving the deer demon a once-over. "You make your clothes?"

"Sometimes!" Alastor said, chipper as always. "It's always better to do the work yourself than pay someone else, you know. You only charge yourself time after all, and here that's certainly in supply!"

He was already turning on his heel and strutting off to the stairs, swinging that stupid pimp cane microphone as he went. Angel drained his glass, blew a kiss towards his favorite grumbling bartender, and followed after him.

"So why sewing?" he asked as he caught up.

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," he continued before he could respond, "like, why'd you think of sewing first when I said I was bored? You got a project in mind or somethin'?"

"I suppose, yes. There are a few repairs I planned on doing later tonight, but if it's to keep you entertained and out of trouble, I have no problem with rearranging my schedule. Anything for the good of the hotel!"

"Gee, you sure know how to make a guy feel special," he said sarcastically. "What repairs you talkin' about?"

"Patience, my good fellow." He stuck his hand out to grab a doorknob—when did they get to Alastor's room?—and swung the door open, gesturing grandly for Angel to go ahead of him. He obliged, and Alastor followed, door latching with a click behind him. "Make yourself comfortable while I gather the supplies."

He considered laying himself out all nice and pretty on Alastor's bed, but decided against it for the moment. He already rejected one offer, no need to antagonize him right away, especially the first time he was allowed in his room. Besides, if he played his cards right, he'd have other chances. "Sure thing," he said, flopping on the couch facing the fireplace. Fancy. Benefactors got the best rooms, then.

Alastor was back within moments, carrying a bunch of folded cloth with a cookie tin on top. He joined Angel on the sofa, setting the pile between them.

He went for the tin immediately. "Cool, snacks." But the tin was only filled with spools of thread and lies.

"I wouldn't recommend eating needles, but I won't stop you."

"Oh, _you're_ judging _my_ diet? That's rich."

Wordlessly, smilingly, Alastor snapped his fingers. A coffee table popped into existence in front of them, an open and non-lying cookie tin sitting in the middle. Angel snatched one immediately, shoving it into his mouth, and grabbed one with each of his other three hands for good measure.

"I thought you might prefer those."

He swallowed. "Nah, still gonna eat some pins and shit. This is just an appetizer."

"Oh, of course. Might I recommend a nice Sauvignon to pair with that?" The bottle appeared in his hand, two empty glasses on the table.

Angel leered at him. "This a test? I only get three drinks ya know, I don't feel like wasting 'em day drinking."

"That limit is from the bar, and while you may not be allowed to buy alcohol yourself, there is absolutely no restriction on accepting it from someone else. And a good 'sip and stitch' is traditional." He reached for the glass in front of Angel. "Of course, if you'd rather not partake—"

He grabbed Alastor's wrist, keeping the glass right where it was. "Pour the wine, Alastor."

He seemed ready to fling the glass at the wall instead, face frozen briefly in fitting deer-in-headlights fashion. He wasn't great at reading his expressions yet, with the perma-grin and all, but he could tell it was definitely nothing positive. Angel realized his hand was still on his arm and removed it before the Radio Demon decided to do the honors himself. Half a second later, Al returned to normal, like nothing had ever happened. "Of course!" He filled Angel glass, then his own, then took a deep drink and topped himself back up. "And now our lesson can begin."

"Ooh, teach me, daddy," he said on reflex, and immediately regretted it.

The deer-in-headlights look returned, combined now with ear-searing microphone feedback, his neck twisting sharply to stare in (probably) horror. "Ha!" he said a beat too late. "Let's not do that."

"Sure thing d—" He searched for a way to save that sentence, and also his skin from being flayed. "—eer."

He had a very different sort of face this time, but still surprised, Angel thought. This one was impossible to read, though. He didn't think he'd ever seen it before.

"So!" Angel said loudly. "Sewing! How—how do I do that?"

"Yes, sewing!" He clapped his hands together. "The first step, of course, is threading the needle. Do you know how to do that?"

"Can I th—of course I can!" He snatched a needle and spool of thread from the tin at random and kept digging around. "'Can you thread a…' I said I knew the basics, I think the first fuckin' step is pretty goddamn basic." He stopped grumbling and poked around the threads a few more times. "Where's your threader thing?"

"My what?"

"The threader? The thing you thread the needle with? 's got a little wire and there's a lady's face on it?"

"You don't need a threader. Let me show you a trick." He held his hands out for the needle and thread and Angel obliged. "See, you can try to aim the thread through the eye all you like, or use your threader tool, or you simply put the thread on your palm like so—" He draped the thread randomly in his hand. "—take your needle like so—" He rolled the head of the needle back and forth across the thread, and amazingly, the thread began to poke through the eye. "—and you have your needle threaded."

"Holy shit," said Angel.

Alastor chuckled. "Here, you try."

He whipped his gloves off and rolled the needle and thread around, and sure enough, it worked. "Holy shit!"

"I'm glad you're impressed. Shall we move on to stitching? What do you know already?"

"I don't know shit, apparently! Come on, let's start from the top!"

Alastor spent nearly an hour going over basic stitches and the proper way to cut fabric, Angel practicing on scraps, before assigning his first real project.

"A pincushion," Angel said flatly.

"Yes. It isn't _the_ easiest project, but it is certainly the most useful if you're planning to continue sewing. It was my first project." He paused. "Well, after repairs and patches. But I'm afraid I don't trust your skill quite enough to ask you to repair my clothes and we don't have anything of yours that needs fixing."

"Eh, if I get a tear bigger than like an inch, I just trash my shit anyway."

He looked terribly affronted. "You don't even save it for scraps?"

"Hey, what was I gonna do with scraps? You saw what I called 'sewing'."

"So uneven, not even a proper stitch…" he muttered to himself. "No matter. You'll be making a pincushion and you'll be _saving_ your ruined clothes from now on. Rips can be repaired and even stains can be cut out or dyed over."

"Yeah, yeah." He stretched all four of his arms high above his head, puffing out his chest to show off the fluff. "So where's the pattern?"

"It is simply a circle with a running stitch about the edge. Cinch it, stuff it, sew on felt to cover the hole."

"Oh, is that all."

Alastor dropped a pile of fabric on his lap. "Well, pick your textile and hop to it!"

He did. He chose a nice pink and grey striped fabric, one that was a bit stretchy, and got to work. At first, he was totally absorbed in perfectly tracing the border with his stitches, but soon it wasn't as much of a challenge and his mind began to wander. So did his eyes, which kept coming back to Alastor, smiling peacefully at a button as he reattached it. He never would have taken the Radio Demon for a seamstress. Seamstress? No, he'd be a tailor, right? No, tailors just did suit fittings and shit, he was definitely a seamstress…seamster? _That_ was definitely wrong.

"Shit!" Angel cursed suddenly; he managed to stab his finger. Good thing he did, though. He'd have gone over his first stitches again if he hadn't caught himself right then.

Alastor glanced at him. "Alright there, Angel?" He kept sewing away at whatever seam he was working on then, not bothering to look.

"Just bleedin' to death, no worries."

"If you get blood on the fabric you have to start over."

He hadn't, thankfully, but scoffed anyway. "What if I want blood on my pincushion? Makes it look badass. Maybe I killed a man with these needles, you don't know."

Alastor ignored the comment. "Looks like you're done your running stitches. Now if you pull the thread, it will come together and form a pocket."

The circle pulled together like a drawstring pouch. "Hell yeah!"

"Marvelous!" He rose to his feet. "I'll get the stuffing." He stalked off and returned with a pillowcase-sized bag full of cotton.

"What do you use all this shit for?"

"Pincushions."

"You make that many fuckin'—"

He dropped the bag in Angel's lap. "Less talking, more stuffing!"

Angel grinned. "You can stuff me anyti—"

"The pincushion!"

Stuffing was just as mindless as the sewing ended up being, but at least that was quick. Sewing the felt bottom on, his mind wandered back to Alastor the seamstress. That's the word that seemed to fit the image: the calm focus on each and every stitch, the practiced way the needle slid through fabric, the red hair slightly hanging in his face—the _long_ hair, Angel found himself noticing. How had he not realized how long Alastor's hair really was, and that odd bob it was cut in? Plus, the cut of his coat, the thin waist, the way the tail flared and hung around his legs…Angel grinned to himself. And he'd called _him_ feminine.

"Angel! Congratulations, you've finished your first sewing project!"

He blinked, looking down at his hands. So he had.

"Well, how does it feel?" Alastor asked. "To be holding something you've made with your own four hands?"

He tossed the pincushion from hand to hand, leaning into the plush couch. "Pretty bitchin'."

"I only really had the pincushion planned for you. I'm sure I could think of something, but is there any project that you wanted to try?"

Humming, he considered his options. "Somethin' I'll use, definitely," he said after a moment. "Don't wanna make a fuckin'…handkerchief or some shit." He pursed his lips, then grinned. "How 'bout a skirt? That can't be too hard, right?"

"That," Alastor said, "depends entirely on what style of skirt you intend to make. Your…" He eyed Angel's legs with palpable distaste. "…usual style," he settled on, "the mini skirt, that will be difficult. There is very little room for error when something is skin tight. But a circle skirt is a relatively simple project."

"Hey, a circle skirt works for me, man," he said, ignoring the disgust. He was used to it. "I don't always stick to the same silhouette, y'know."

"Marvelous!" Alastor said again, rising once more. "Firstly, you must decide whether you would prefer to work with elastic or zippers. I, personally, recommend the elastic. Sewing a zipper properly is more difficult than enforcing prohibition…"

Angel watched the so-called Radio Demon piddle about his room, rifling through cabinets and picking out supplies here and there, and grinned. He doubted he'd be getting bored anytime soon.

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Thanks for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Gathering Your Materials

"You'll need to make your own pattern again," Alastor noted, "depending on the length you'd prefer and your waist measurement, and there's a bit of math involved…"

Angel sipped his wine—if you could call it sipping, seeing as he was already on glass number three. The bottle never seemed to get any lighter, though, so he helped himself. He tried to focus on his sewing teacher's technical babbling, but he'd been going on for what felt like forever about the tiniest details. It couldn't be _that _much more difficult than the pincushion, right? Either way, he never did understand things when someone just said them. Talking it through to himself helped, but he was just a hands-on kinda guy. In more ways than one.

"Al," he interrupted finally. Alastor turned and looked at him with what looked like surprise, stopping in the middle of a sentence. "All this?" Angel pointed his finger and waved it around, gesturing at everything Alastor was doing. "Not helpful. Not yet. Just lemme grab some fabric so I can actually see what the hell you're talkin' about and then we'll figure it out, yeah?"

The Radio Demon didn't speak for several moments. Angel worried he pissed him off interrupting him like that, but a laugh track played to break the silence. "Of course!" he said, spinning his microphone like baton. "I seem to have quite forgotten I had a live audience, rather than just one just listening in. Yes, choosing fabric should be the first step…" He walked off, probably to pick out some fabric recommendations, but stopped short. He slowly turned, grin wider, eyes glowing slightly. "A step you'll do yourself."

"…yeah," Angel said blankly, "I sure hope I would, considerin' I'm the one who's gonna be wearin' the skirt. What're my options?"

"You misunderstand me, Angel," he said, sounding way too devious for someone talking about sewing. "Tomorrow, you'll visit a craft shop and purchase the necessary fabric yourself. The shop will certainly have more options to your taste than my own stores."

"I'm on probation, man," he whined. "How am I supposed to get to a craft shop? You gonna sneak me out a window or somethin'?"

"Your probation prevents you from leaving the hotel…" He paused for effect, meeting Angel's eyes. "…_alone_."

"So who's gonna—" He narrowed his eyes, smirking. "So you're gonna play my bodyguard, hm? Gonna parade me around, take me to buy some clothes? The Radio Demon and Hell's most famous whore. Oh, how the people will talk!"

Alastor's face didn't change at all. "Then it's certainly a good thing I couldn't care less what they're saying." He looked away, then, and tapped his microphone to the ground. "Now shoo! It's nearly dinner time. You're on probation, after all. You can't be missing meals!"

Angel sat where he was for just a moment, eyes flicking between Alastor and the table. Quickly, he snatched his glass and drained it. He poured yet another overfull glass of Sauvignon before he finally stood and left for his own room, mock-saluting on the way out. "You're the boss, Al."

Dinner was uneventful. So was that evening at the bar, other than Husk's side-eye. Being drunk all the time himself, he was pretty good at seeing when anybody else was tipsy. But Angel still got his last two drinks without a fuss. The next morning was the problem.

He awoke to a loud tapping on his door and a static-tinged call of "Angel!"

He rolled over to check how late he had to have slept in for Charlie to send someone to wake him up and cursed, covering his head with his pillow. But Alastor kept tapping the door. "It's nine in the morning!" Angel yelled.

"The store closes at noon!" he called. "I'm waking you up to give you ample time to eat a healthy breakfast before heading out! It's the most important meal of the day, after all!"

"Shut up and give me another hour."

"We're leaving at ten!"

"At t—" Angel growled. "We don't need two hours to look at fabric!"

"No!" he said. "We need one hour, and half an hour to get there, just to be safe!"

"That's still half an hour till it closes!"

"It's very rude to stay in a shop right until the end of their hours!"

Angel growled again, burying his face further under the covers.

"Be downstairs within forty minutes!" Alastor called. His shoes clicked down the hallway.

He lay in his bed a bit longer. How many hours had he slept? Like four? He debated trying to get a few extra minutes of shut-eye, but forced himself to stand and walk to the bathroom instead. He'd feel more alive after he washed up.

He still looked double-dead as he made his way to the lobby and slumped on a barstool. "Gimme a Pink Lady."

"What about your healthy breakfast?"

Angel nearly jumped out of his skin. He actually did slip off the barstool, but caught himself before he made it to the floor. Still, the motion knocked his head around, doing absolutely nothing to help his hangover. That damn three-drink limit was the worst thing that ever happened to his tolerance. "Shit!" He pressed the heels of one set of hands into his eyes, finally registering what Alastor said. "'S got egg in it. Creepy bastard."

"Not quite what I meant." He snapped his fingers. "Husk, make that a mimosa instead, won't you? Angel, bring it to the kitchen. Niffty has made a lovely breakfast!"

By that point, Angel regretted ever telling the Radio Demon he was bored. He'd take bored over hungover and unable to take the hair of the dog on his own terms any day. But the smell of sausage and coffee wafted from the kitchen. That, plus the promise of leaving the hotel for a bit, stopped him from heading back to bed and forgetting the whole thing. Grumbling, he snatched his mimosa and slouched to the kitchen.

Niffty stuck a plate in front of him the instant he sat down. About halfway through the coffee, sausage, egg, and toast, he found himself conversant. "So what's the occasion, Nift?

"Oh, I make breakfast for everybody every morning!" she said, bouncing around between the many pans on the stove. "We had biscuits and gravy yesterday! I'm going to be busy tomorrow though, so it's just fruit parfaits. But I've got hash browns and bacon and all kinds of good stuff planned for the next day!"

Angel stared down at his plate. "Huh."

"The early spider gets the fly, Angel," Alastor said from behind him, tapping the back of his chair with his microphone.

"Where in hell do you keep coming from!"

"Right here in Hell," he said. "Hurry up, or all the best fabrics will be out of stock."

Grumbling the whole time, he cleared his plate, drained his glass, and they were on their way.

"Couldn't be open late like any reasonable business, _oh no_, gotta close at grandma hours so they ain't late for fuckin' bingo…"

"Nonsense!" Alastor said brightly, arm around Angel's shoulders as he dragged him through the street. "The owner is a very busy woman! Even more so now, having recently lost a beloved business partner! Show some demonic decency, won't you?" He stopped short, Angel lurching in his grasp, and gestured grandly with his microphone. "Here we are!"

_Franklin and Rosie Emporium_, the sign read, though _Franklin_ was crossed out in black paint. A very recent loss, then.

"Well what are you waiting for?" he asked. He burst through the door, shoving Angel through ahead of him. "Rosie! Darling!"

"Alastor," greeted a woman with a Victorian-looking dress and a smile to match Alastor's. She stood primly behind the counter surrounded by a variety of spooky-looking knickknacks. A gnarled-looking hand sitting on a pedestal immediately next to her opened its palm and _blinked_ at him. "And who's this you've dragged in? Payment?"

"Not at all!" he announced before Angel could freak out any more. "This gentleman is a customer of your fine establishment. Run along now Angel, my good fellow, we have some catching up to do!"

"We certainly do," Rosie said, smile growing wider.

Angel didn't need to be told twice. He hadn't survived as long as he had in Hell by sticking around to get between two powerful demons—well, outside of the studio, anyway. He quickly stepped away from the counter to get lost somewhere between shelves upon shelves of voodoo bullshit. Were those real eyes in the porcelain doll? And were the symbols on that scroll moving?

Alastor's voice rang through the shop, like it was wired through speakers. "And don't touch anything that isn't a roll of fabric!"

"Whatever you say, Smiles!" he yelled towards the ceiling. Knowing the difficulties he had with keeping his hands to himself, he tore himself away from the doll and the scroll with markings that make his head hurt to look at and sought out the fabrics.

They were in the very back of the shop, confined to a corner and encircled by various leathers and furs. Angel tried not to think about whose skin it may have once been. Even discounting the ones that used to be alive, there were tons of fabrics to pick from, all organized by color. After taking a moment to admire the rainbow, he dove into the pinks and blacks. Silk, satin, velvet, lace, chiffon…it was all so luxurious he could hardly stand it. He'd felt plenty of fancy fabrics before—the studio didn't skimp on the lingerie—but never that _much_ of it. A couple postage stamps with something sheer over it didn't compare to yards of the stuff.

He was getting distracted, though. He was there to look for a fabric for a circle skirt, not one to wrap around himself like a cocoon. The satin and silk were out then. They bunched weird when he tried to drape them, and they'd wrinkle way too much for his line of work. The velvet was out too. It grabbed fur too easily. Plus, it would definitely be a seasonal item, and he wanted to make something he could wear _now_. Lace was nice, but he'd save it for something a little tighter to do the intricate designs justice. Chiffon had the look he wanted, but it draped almost too nicely, flowing like water around any disturbance. He wanted a little volume, at least.

"Finding everything alright?"

To his credit, Angel didn't jump this time, just jolted. Jolted and whipped the pistol out from where he kept it hidden in his chest, but that was just because of the kind of store he was in. He wasn't about to let himself be sold without taking a cut. "Goddamn it, Al! Quit that shit!"

Alastor looked completely unphased at having a gun pointed at his face. Delicately, he pushed it away with his microphone. "Do you have any ideas yet?"

He rubbed his face with one hand and tucked the gun away with another, two still grasping a particularly delicate black silk. "A couple, yeah. Asshole. Definitely goin' with black, don't need to worry 'bout matching pinks then. Thinkin' chiffon but I don't know, I was kinda hoping it'd flare more…" He uncovered his face. "Could I do a few tulle layers under, or would that look stupid?"

"A short enough circle skirt will flare a good bit on its own. I only worry the chiffon would catch on the tulle, what with the way it's netted…"

They discussed their options for several moments, feeling fabrics and rubbing them against one another, before making a decision. Two yards of black satin for the lining and waist, five yards each of chiffon and tulle for the body of the skirt. Reaching the counter to have the fabric cut, Angel had the distinct feeling his eyes were bigger than his wallet.

"Hey," he said. Two smiley bastards turned to face him. "Uh, I don't really think I need that many layers, actually. Let's make that, uh, fo—"

"Nonsense, Angel!" Alastor said. "We were in agreement. Even if you decide on less volume later on, it is always better to over-buy. There's always use for scraps, and who knows if the fabric will even be available if you must return to buy more?"

"Okay, but—"

Rosie loudly clicked a few buttons on the register. "Your total will be—"

"Add it to my tab, my dear."

Angel stared at the overlord. If he had any less self-control, his jaw would have been hanging open.

Rosie narrowed her eyes, smile small and stiff. It melted back into a wicked grin. "Of course."

"What. The hell. Was _that_?" Angel hissed once they were back on the street, Rosie safely out of earshot. This time, he was allowed to walk on his own, and Alastor kept his hands folded behind his back, his red-tinted eyelids lowered in a serene expression. He wasn't walking, though. He stopped dead in the middle of the street, snarling, blocking Alastor's path.

Alastor widened his eyes just enough to regard Angel, entirely nonchalant. "Pardon?"

"That!" He pointed one whole arm at the store, palm up, and used another arm to rattle his shopping bags angrily. "This! What the fuck?"

"I anticipated you were…lower on funds than I am," he said delicately. "It seemed pointless to force you to pay for something that would set you back so significantly, when the same purchase would not affect me." A pause. "More so when it was I who incited you to make the purchase."

He swallowed, lowering his arms but not dropping them all the way. His voice was hoarse. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

A laugh track cut through the tense atmosphere, Alastor's own laughter joining it. "Absolutely nothing!"

"You expect me to believe that bull?" Angel snapped. He snatched the overlord by the bowtie before his sense caught up to him. "This is hell, you smiley shitlord, nobody does shit for free! What are you playing at?"

Static crackled in the air. The atmosphere grew thick and red. The Radio Demon's smile grew taught, eyes widening and reddening. His face became uncomfortable to look at, like a glitch on a screen, like the scroll from the shop, like something you're not supposed to see and live. It was then Angel knew he fucked up.

"_Five foot rule, Angel,_" the Radio Demon's voice echoed from somewhere that was definitely not his mouth, considering it wasn't moving.

Angel released the bowtie, all his limbs slumping. His shopping bags fell from his hands and dropped onto the ground.

"_Mark my words Angel Dust,_" the echo continued, "_if I want something from you, you will know_." And just as suddenly as it came about, the static and red sheen disappeared and Alastor's voice returned to his mouth. "But for now, having a sewing partner is payment enough."

"Is it," Angel said, face blank and voice dull.

"Quite enough." With that, Alastor scooped the bags from the ground with the tip of his cane and held them out for Angel to grab. He did. He wrapped a hand around the bicep of the spider's lower arm and led him back to the hotel.

They didn't speak for the rest of the walk.

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Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I fucked up last night and posted the wrong chapter and like an idiot I didn't check it. This is the right one now!

Chapter 3: Taking Your Measurements

"So sewing is…it's really important to you."

They were back in Alastor's room, sitting on the sofa, despite the blowup in front of Rosie's. Angel would have split once they made it to the lobby, just to give them both space to cool off, but the overlord hadn't let go of his arm until the door had latched—and locked, he noticed as his heart dropped well into his stomach—behind them. He knew better than to try to wriggle out of the grasp of someone more powerful than him, even such a light grip. It was never that light once he got caught the second time around.

This time, the coffee table was covered with fabric and crinkley paper. There was no cookie tin, except for the one that held the needles and thread. Alastor offered no wine. He offered no words, either, as he began making marks on the paper. Even the ambient radio chatter that always seemed to follow him around was scattered, audio playing over itself and switching between channels so he couldn't make out a single word. But eventually, as Angel watched without breathing, the manic channel surfing settled on a jazz station, and the Radio Demon began to hum along. That was enough to convince Angel to press his luck. He knew it was probably a terrible idea to say anything to the other demon, but he had to know: was the money that insignificant to him, or was having a sewing buddy that important? He couldn't decide which concept was more alien.

Alastor continued his humming for a moment, giving no indication he heard the spider. "You could say that, yes," he said eventually. He folded the fabric and paper. "It's an important skill."

"Important enough that you'd…" He stopped, unable to find the right words. _Pay for my shit_ just didn't convey the significance of the gesture. _Help me_ would make it way too personal.

"Important enough that I'd put a bit of effort into keeping someone with interest in it around?" he finished, glancing over. "Yes."

Angel let himself relax into the couch a bit. So a bit of both, he guessed. Money means nothing, sewing buddy means a lot. He probably wasn't going to be killed anytime soon, as long as he managed not to fuck up that spectacularly again. That was another addition to his mental rulebook: don't piss off the Radio Demon any more than he already had.

"Do you know your waist measurement offhand?" Alastor asked.

He blinked. "Around eighteen. Inches."

"I see." Al marked it down. "And hips?"

"Uh…" He clicked his tongue, sucked on his lip. "Not offhand, nah."

"I see," he repeated. He drew a measuring tape from the cookie tin. "Stand up, won't you?"

With a grin, Angel rose, stepping close and holding his arms out away from his torso, giving easy access. "Ooh, gonna measure me? Gonna wrap me all up with—"

"Ha! No. I think you're quite capable of doing so yourself. But I will read the tape for you!"

He turned around and wrapped the tape around his hips, making sure it crossed right above his ass.

"And waist, just for good measure, while we have it out."

Facing Alastor again with a seductive look, he obediently measured his waist.

"Hmm." He wrote something down, but continued to look at the tape.

"See somethin' you like?"

"Where does your third pair of arms come from?" he asked.

Instead of answering out loud, he popped them out, just below the tape.

"You'll want the waistband under those, won't you?"

"Aw shit, a' course!" He quickly wrapped the tape below the arms, Alastor crossing the old measurement out.

"Right," he said, still writing figures on the paper. "The elastic will be cut to your waist measurement, unstretched, but the satin waistband must be cut to the hip measurement. Do you follow?"

He nodded.

"Good. Here's where the math comes in. The skirt itself is a donut pattern, and the hole at the center must have the diameter of your hip measurement. We'll need to find the radius in order to draw it out, then add the intended length of the skirt to that radius to draw the outer circle. Now to find the radius…"

Angel watched Alastor work out the pattern, performing calculations like he'd done them millions of times. Hell, maybe he had. He didn't think Alastor made circle skirts that often, but maybe donuts were, like, super common shapes in sewing. Either way, he explained every step of the way, and Angel actually found himself understanding.

With the pattern ready, he began the most tedious task he'd done yet, cutting the skirts. Each layer of tulle and chiffon had to be cut individually, since stacking them ran the risk of the fabric slipping out of alignment mid-cut. He was willing to take that risk, but Alastor insisted he do things the "right way." So Angel found himself observing the incredible sewing deer in his natural habitat once more. Alastor's project that day began as a suede-like fabric, something Angel thought he recognized from the more disturbing racks at Rosie's. While his project showed no sign of nearing completion, he watched in amazement as Alastor's slowly came together into something recognizable.

"You're makin' a doll?" he couldn't help but blurt once the shape became clear.

"So to speak, yes."

"A doll." He looked at it closer, his own project forgotten. "You. A fuckin' doll."

Alastor glanced away from the little demon-shaped lump in his lap to raise a challenging eyebrow, smile turning smug. "Yes, a doll. Is there a problem?"

"No problem!" he was quick to say. "Just…unexpected, 's all. I mean, a guy like you makin' kid's toys…"

"It isn't that kind of doll, Angel." And then his head was back down, hair hanging just long enough not to fully cover a patronizing smirk.

Not trusting himself to avoid saying something he'd regret, he chose not to speak at all. _Don't piss off the Radio Demon._ Instead, he returned to the monotonous fabric donut cutting and kept his insults in his mind _and_ in Italian, just for extra precaution. Amidst his internally monologued "_vaffanculo!_"s and "_testa di cazzo_!"s, Angel managed to snip out his final layer.

"Finished cuttin' shit," he announced, dropping the fabric scissors unceremoniously back into the tin.

"Excellent! For the next step, you'll be pinning the—"

He interrupted before he could start rattling off any more instructions. "Actually Smiles, I think I'm done for the day," he said, stretching out and rolling his shoulders. "That was a lot a fuckin' cuttin'. Hands are crampin' up." For effect, he rolled and cracked his wrists with a realistic but hopefully not overly-dramatic wince.

He furrowed his brows. His smile looked puzzled. "Aren't you quite used to, shall we say…working with your hands?"

He cackled. "You know it!" He sobered quickly, catching the other demon's pointed look. "But uh. Not like this shit. Just squeezin' and squeezin'…"

Alastor considered the spider, eyelids lowered to what would be a squint if they didn't seem so relaxed. His head tilted to the side. Angel was ready to bolt if not for the locked door, certain he'd been caught in his lie, but Al's eyes snapped open wide and his grin broke out even wider. "But of course! This simply isn't the sort of thing you're used to, far be it from me to judge you for tiring out so quickly! Quite the effort you put in good fellow, quite the effort!" He stood and began cleaning up, throwing sewing supplies into their places at a speed Niffty would be jealous of. "I do believe I'll call this an early night on the sewing myself Angel, our little outing today forced me to neglect a few of my other managerial duties. Running this hotel isn't all shopping trips and sewing club you know!" Already done tidying, he snuck around behind Angel somehow, putting the now fully-shaped doll on display in one clawed hand. The other rested on the shoulder of his lower set of arms. "Besides, this little figure can certainly be put on hold until tomorrow! And you will be joining me again tomorrow, won't you Angel?"

It took Angel a minute to register that Alastor had asked him a question. The bastard was a fast talker, darting between topics and around the room like a chihuahua on crack. "Sure thing, Al," he assured once his brain caught up, "same time, same place!"

"Yes indeed! Well, enjoy the rest of your evening! Ta!"

And Angel was in the hall, Al's door slamming shut behind him.

"Fuckin' smug-ass strawberry pimp lookin' motherfucker," he ground out, stomping down the hall. "Bitch knows he scared the shit outta me, thinks it's fuckin' hilarious watchin' me try not to—he's just baitin' me! Wants to push me just far enough to make me go apeshit on 'im again so he has an excuse to eat my goddamn ass—!" He kicked a pillar. "_Fuck!_"

The rest of the walk to his room was spent half hopping, half limping, and all cursing. Thankfully, he wasn't far, and he flopped onto his bed soon enough. Fat Nuggets nudged his legs to say hello.

"Why do I do this to myself, Nuggets?" Angel asked, lifting his pig up. "Why do I keep gettin' chummy with asshole overlords, forget they could snap me in half, and piss 'em off? Why don't I fuckin' listen?" _Sigh_. "Well, I know why I didn't listen to Vaggie, she's paranoid as all hell. But still."

By the time he managed to blow off a little steam, though, Angel realized he wasn't all that pissed at the Radio Demon. He had kinda lost his shit and he still wasn't dead. His sewing buddy had every opportunity to whip out the freaky tentacle shit and banish him to the shadow dimension or whatever the fuck (a concept he tucked away to consider later in a very different context), and hell, every right to! He disrespected an overlord in public! He should've been an example, but he got off with a warning. Then it only took a bit before they were back to sewing like before. Either it was harder than he thought to find someone who wanted to learn how to use a needle for something other than shooting up or something else had his hands tied.

Angel's charming personality?

Doubtful, considering that's what nearly got him double-dead in the first place.

A long-haul ploy for some free sex?

That'd be the first guess for most demons, but considering the reaction to his first offer…

Feelings of mercy and compassion?

Ha! Hell no. That shit didn't happen for demons, especially not demons like Alastor.

The Hotel's reputation?

…bingo.

"Angel! You're up early," Charlie said over a glass of orange juice. "Did your trip with Alastor yesterday convince you to be more of an early bird?"

He shrugged, stepping into the kitchen and sitting a few seats down from her. "Nobody told me I was missin' breakfast. I like my beauty sleep, but I like breakfast more. 'Sides, it's only like nine thirty." He tapped the table to get Niffty's attention. "Hey Nift, I was promised a parfait!"

Fueled by coffee, yogurt, and fruit, Angel headed back upstairs to find the Radio Demon, skipping his usual stop at the bar. Hopefully, since they'd had time to cool off, their sip and stitch would involve a lot more sipping. It took him longer than he'd like to admit to find Alastor's room—he could've sworn they were on the same floor!—but he found the door and knocked on it eventually.

"Nothing needs cleaned at the moment, Niffty," Alastor called. "Thank you!"

"It ain't Niffty."

Alastor didn't speak for a moment. Angel grinned wickedly—he'd caught the deer demon off guard, had he? The sound of his shoes clicked towards the door, which opened just a crack. Alastor peeked out. "Angel. You're here earlier than I expected, especially considering your complaints yesterday morning."

"Eh, I got a shoot later today, and I did say same time, same place. Besides…" He leaned in close. "I've been anxious to get back to sewing with you."

"Oh," he said, leaning away, "well, in that case, come in!"

Angel slipped through the door. The table was already set up with the sewing tin, his skirt donuts laid out. He pouted. Must not have caught him that off guard, then.

"Well, since you've finished cutting out the skirt, your next step is the waistband. Much fewer calculations this time, I'm glad to say, we just need to—"

"Oh, before I forget!"

Alastor paused, turning to face the interruption.

Angel whipped out a wine glass. "Here, I kinda stole this the other day."

Taking the glass, he sat out the couch, prompting the spider to do the same. "Why, thank you, Angel. Though I'm not quite in the mood for wine today…" In the blink of an eye, the single wine glass became two whiskey glasses, held pinched at the rims by three clawed fingers. "Perhaps a nice glass of Courvoisier?"

He shrugged. "Liquor's liquor."

"So Angel," he began, pouring the drinks and sliding the other demon's glass down the table, "how do you expect to do your, ah, filming? If I recall, you're still on probation."

"Charlie hasn't started locking my window yet."

"…you're on the sixth floor."

He downed the cognac in one go and slid the empty glass back for a refill. "Spider."

They got to work soon enough. Angel was glad he'd made a pincushion, since the skirt needed a shit load of pins. It took ages getting all the layers to stay together. But once the satin rectangle stuffed with elastic and the layers of chiffon and tulle were all pinned together, he finally saw what he was working towards, and it was _so_ worth it. He just had to sew it up permanently.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Elastic fucking sucked to work with by hand. He was sure they had sewing machines even back when Alastor was around, but _no_, it was so important to learn the _real way_ before using shortcuts. Keeping the elastic taught and in line with the fabric, keeping the pinned pleats in place, and actually sewing took so much concentration even with all six hands getting in on the action he barely noticed when Al's weirdass doll sprouted hair and gained pants. What he did notice, though, was the growing feeling of satisfaction as he pulled out the final pin and stuck it back into the cushion. Just a few stitches left. Five, then four, three, two, one, and with a final tug—

"Done!" Angel declared far louder than he had any need to, holding the finished skirt in the air for display.

"Wonderful, Angel!" Applause played around Alastor through his radio aura. "Go on then, do try it on!"

"Yeah?"

He nodded, audience still cheering.

"Well, whatever you say—"

"In the bathroom!" Alastor said in a tone that could almost be described as a yelp, if he didn't happen to be one of Hell's most dangerous demons. Either way, he covered his face and turned away from the spider, dying applause cut off with a sound like a record scratch.

Angel took his hands away from his waistband, raising them in the air in surrender. "Whatever you say. But people pay big money to watch me str—"

"_Go_!"

"Just lettin' you know what you're refusin', 's all!" He closed the door behind him and left it unlocked, just in case Al changed his mind about the show. He didn't, but Angel peeked his head back out a moment later and grinned. Alastor had removed the coffee table and brought out a full-length mirror, perfect for modeling his creation. He put on his best camera face and strutted out, legs first.

The skirt was perfect. Just the right length, just the right volume, just the right flare when he turned on his heel to do a second walk. He felt like a movie star, not a porn star, the way Alastor's fake audience cheered him on. He even caught a couple wolf-whistles. But when he spun in place and all the layers fluttered enough to put a ballerina to shame, he felt like a princess.

"So I take it you like it?" Alastor asked as his performance began to wind down.

"I love it," he breathed.

It was then Angel began to notice the things he'd neglected to while concentrating on his skirt. Like the way Al's eyes crinkled with this smile, and the way his long fingers tapped on his staff. Like the red at the tips of his claws. Like the stone at the center of his bowtie, reminding him of some Victorian broad's broach. Like the perfect arch of his eyebrow, the elegant slope of his jaw to a thin, delicate neck.

"And what project do you plan on doing this time?"

In that moment, looking at Alastor's genuine smile and surprisingly soft features, his pointed nose and long, long hair, his wide eyes with dark lashes and what had to be eyeshadow on the lids, Angel had an idea. Worse, he couldn't stop his mouth from blurting it out right then.

"I wanna make you a dress."

* * *

And we arrive to the point: Alastor crossdressing.

Thanks for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: A little extra homophobia and slut shaming this time around, just want you to be prepared.

* * *

Chapter 4: Preparing Your Pattern

Angel wanted to blame it on the booze, but he'd only been nursing glass number two. Even the Hotel couldn't make him that much of a lightweight. No, his own damn impulsiveness was at fault. Why couldn't he keep his big fucking mouth shut?

The seconds Alastor spent staring at him seemed to last forever. He examined Angel's face closely, as if he were searching for any sign of motive, any explanation. Angel wished he had one to give. That toothy grin was plastered on, cheeks pulled taut. His manicured brows were low, eyes squinting, almost entirely covering the lovely color on the lids. An ear twitched, betraying his deerlike nature, but Angel felt like the one in headlights. Finally, he hummed. "Okay, I'll bite. Why, Angel, do you want to make me a dress?"

Angel looked away first, watching himself fidget with the hem of his skirt. He was glad Al made him hem the edge instead of leaving it raw, or else it'd be frayed before he even wore it out anywhere. "Just thought you'd look good in one, 's all." He should have known better. Alastor died way before he did, after all. If he hadn't gone to Hell when he had, he'd have been Pops' age, probably older. Angel was lucky he wasn't…less tolerant. The sewing, the skirt, indulging his little runway fantasy? That was the limit. He should've shut up and let himself have just that.

"I see." Alastor said. "And you want to make one for me."

"It's stupid, forget I ever—"

"It won't be easy, you know," Al continued. "A lot of work goes into full-body clothing. You'd do better to try something simpler and work your way up. Perhaps a bowtie, or an unfitted shirt…but if you do want to make me a dress, I would be flattered."

Slowly, Angel's grin returned. "No fuckin' way!" he said. "You don't think it's weird?"

"Oh, of course I do," he said. "Incredibly strange. I can't even begin to fathom why the thought ever arose in your mind!" His grin fell into something more genuine once again, something without all the teeth. "But I've been in Hell for nearly a century, Angel. At this point, I don't particularly care what is or isn't considered normal. I'll try nearly anything once, if only to briefly stave off the aching boredom inevitable in the pit of eternal suffering we sinners now call home."

"Shit, I'll drink to that," Angel said, plopping back onto the sofa. "Where'd the booze go?"

With a tap of his microphone, the table returned, booze and all. Angel did a little toast. "Now I won't guarantee I'll wear it," Alastor warned him. "I'm afraid we have very different tastes in fashion."

"Well duh. I was gonna ask you some shit, make sure you like it. If I'm gonna take all this time, it better be somethin' you'll at least try on." He leaned towards him, lower arms propped inches from Alastor's thigh on the couch. "So, we doin' full drag, or just crossdressing?"

"Pardon?"

"For your makeover," he said. "We're doin' this right if we're doin' it at all. So drag or crossdressing?"

"I—" He paused. He leaned his microphone staff against the arm of the couch, folding his hands in his lap and giving Angel his full attention. "I was not aware that those were different things."

"Right, you're an old man," he teased. "So crossdressing is clothes, drag is the show, y'know?" He watched Alastor, making sure he was following. "Drag is all about exaggeration. It's takin' everything people say a chick's supposed to be—like the hair and makeup and the body and shit—and crankin' it up to eleven, and ownin' it. 's why broads can be queens too, 's all about the persona."

He felt tempted to indicate his chest at that, to lean in close and press the fluff up with his hands, but decided against it. Alastor's face was already pinched uncomfortably, absorbing the new information. "Ah. I…see."

"Crossdressing is…more casual," he settled on. "You're runnin' to the store and you throw on a skirt 'stead of pants. Or you wanna look like a girl for real, not a show, when you ain't a girl. You're not really lookin' for attention, and it ain't a gender thing, you're just…y'know?"

"…I see," Alastor said, head tilting.

Angel sighed. "When I'm onstage, in the club, wig and all," he said, "that's drag. Over-the-top shit. Right now?" He tugged the edge of his new skirt and kicked up a leg to show off his heels. "I'm crossdressing." He let his leg drop and crossed both sets of arms, leaning back into the sofa. "Got it?"

He nodded. "I believe so, yes." He drummed his claws on the arm of the couch and tapped his foot to whatever music was broadcasting just to him. "We'll stick with crossdressing then, I think," he said. "I have no intention of…performing, the way that you do."

Angel felt the derision, the disgust for everything he was, but he ignored it. Not like it was anything new, and Al had already surpassed his expectations of open-mindedness anyway. "Had to try, right Al?" he said with a wink, continuing before he could object. "So I'm definitely thinkin' red and black for the color, obviously, but what about the style? Formal, casual, modern…?"

Alastor's nose wrinkled. "No, nothing modern, thank you. New fashion simply has no class."

"Definitely classic, then. Somethin' below the knee?"

He nodded.

"Right, hang on." He searched the couch for something to write on. "Got any paper?"

With a snap, an open sketchbook landed on Angel's lap, folded over to a blank page. A charcoal pencil soon followed.

"Thanks," Angel said. "So classic and below the knee, probably somethin' from your time, hm?"

"That would be preferable, yes."

They discussed the design for hours, going over the looks Alastor loved and the ones he wouldn't touch. Apparently, the Roaring Twenties looked a lot different than Angel had been told. What did Al mean nothing ended above the knee and no one wore fringe? After they got the look (and Angel's understanding of historical fashion) ironed out came the technicalities. The fabrics used traditionally, the fabrics he preferred, the fabrics that would actually work for the design, how much of the fabric they'd need, plus how to make or find the pattern…but eventually, they had a solid plan.

Angel drew the tape measure from the tin. "So Smiles," he said, grinning, "I'm gonna need some measurements."

"Of course!" Instead of standing, he grabbed the sketchbook from Angel's hands and wrote out some numbers in the corner. He handed the book back. "There you are, my dear!"

He looked over the measurements, pouting, but his grin quickly returned. "You forgot one, Al."

"No, I don't believe so. Chest, neck, shoulder, waist, inse—"

"Hips."

His eyes went wide and he blinked once, twice, four times rapidly. "Hips."

"Yep!" He unrolled the tape and pulled a section taut with a _snap _and a wink. "So want me to measure you, or just read the tape?"

He stared a few extra seconds, but eventually sighed in resignation. "Fine. You can read it," he said as he stood shrugged off his coat. The tape crossed at his hip when he wrapped it around, so sadly Angel had no excuse to stare at his ass. That didn't mean he didn't take a peek though (nothing to write home about).

"That's about it then, ain't it?" he asked, marking down the last measurement. "I just gotta run to the shop tomorrow to pick up the shit."

"Precisely! And we'll leave around ten just like—"

"Hold up!" Angel interrupted. "You ain't comin'. I'm gettin' the fabric and making the dress myself, alright? It'll be a surprise."

"A surprise," Alastor repeated dubiously. "You are aware I've been watching you sketch the design of this 'surprise' the entire time, yes?"

"Hey, I never said that was the final draft! You don't know what I got up these sleeves, I got fuckin' six of 'em. Plenty a' room for surprises." He closed up the sketchbook, sticking the charcoal pencil in to mark the page. Then he cursed suddenly and checked his phone. "Damn it! Lost track of time. Sorry Smiles, gotta bounce. Val's gonna be here to pick me up in like ten minutes and I still gotta get dressed." He stuck his pincushion on top of the book and poured the rest of his Courvoisier down his gullet before running out the door. Depending on what Val had planned, he'd need the booze. He stopped just long enough to blow a kiss. "Bye, Al!"

In just seconds, he was so far down the hall he nearly missed a muffled "goodbye, Angel!" on his way out.

* * *

"So this place looks…interesting," Charlie said. Her ever-optimistic smile looked a bit more troubled than usual. "…what happened to Franklin?"

"Probably better not to ask." Angel hesitated in the limo, parked across from Rosie's, not quite ready to step into that freakshow without another overlord's protection. And she was an overlord, he knew, if a minor one. He wasn't big on politics, but he had looked into it a little. It didn't feel great to know he'd somehow completely missed the Radio Demon, someone so powerful both physically and influence-wise. This time he was with actual hellish royalty, but the princess was just as spooked as him. "Look," he said, running his hand through the fluff at the back of his neck, "this place is freaky as all fucks, but it's the only place I know to get quality shit. I—" He sucked a breath between his teeth. "Thanks for bringin' me out here."

"Of course!" she said immediately, grasping his lower hands in hers. "I'm just glad you've found a hobby, especially one so constructive! And it's great to see you and Al getting along!"

Her eyes met his for a moment, genuine care apparent in her gaze. He twisted around and tore his hands away, fixing his fluff. "Yeah, yeah. 's cheaper than getting shit tailored." He popped open the door. "We goin' in or what?"

"You again," Rosie noted as Angel stepped in the store far more confidently than he felt. It wasn't a greeting or a question, just an observation. "And the princess. What an honor."

"Hi!" Charlie said. "I'm Charlie. But I, uh, guess you knew that!" She made a noise that might have been a laugh if it sounded less like one of Nuggets' squeaky toys being stepped on.

Angel nudged her towards the shelves before she could self-destruct further. "Just pickin' up some more fabric."

"And you've brought another philanthropic soul, I see." She was just as casual as before, hands folded elegantly under her chin. "I wonder, does Alastor know?"

Ears ringing, he grabbed Charlie's hand and tugged her away. _Don't piss off overlords. Don't piss off overlords. Don't piss off overlords._

"Hey Angel? Grip's kinda tight there."

He released her immediately. "Sorry, toots." He peeked around a shelf, seeing a rack of furs. "Here we are."

"Oh, these are so nice!" She dove right into the most colorful patterns, all cheap-ass linen and tacky as shit, and not in a good way. "What are you making, anyway, Angel?"

"Just a little something. A gift," he said, looking through the reds. Two rolls of fabric sat before him in very similar shades. "Which one looks more like Smiles?"

The princess didn't even acknowledge the question. She was too busy physically shaking from the effort not to spew rainbows. "A _gift_?"

"Should _not_ have said that."

Her arms wrapped around his waist, holding tight. Apparently, Charlie stood at the perfect height to slam her face right into his chest fluff. "You're giving Al a gift!" she nearly sang, "That's another great step towards redemption!"

"Watch the volume," Angel hissed, pushing her away with little success, "you don't know who's listening in here! Anyways, he helped me out yesterday, just gettin' even. It ain't even a gift, I dunno why I said that."

She let go, eyes still shining and smile still just as face-breakingly wide. "You're getting him a _gift_," she repeated in a quiet giggle.

"Whatever. Just…help me pick something that won't clash with his hair, will you?"

Once he managed to draw her attention away from the gaudiest patterns, Charlie was actually a decent shopping assistant. She still pushed for broadening Al's color pallet—"What about something in navy? Oh! Or _cyan_!"—but managed to contain her excitement long enough to help choose the perfect shade of red. Not quite blood colored, not maroon, not raspberry or wine or scarlet, but something in between them all that made for Alastor's signature look.

"Five yards of the red, two of the black, eight yards of muslin," Angel requested, dropping the rolls on the counter. "And a roll of craft paper."

Watching Rosie unroll and measure out the fabrics, Angel felt a growing sense of dread. Fifteen yards of fabric looked like a lot more than he expected. How much was fabric supposed to cost anyway? The dread grew faster when he realized he never caught the price when Al paid for him. He pushed the anxieties away, though. He'd had a good day filming, so he kept a good chunk of change even after Val's cut, and he'd been saving up some. Having free room and board really made it easy to keep hold of his cash, and being forced to stay clean made it even easier.

The anxiety came back as soon as Rosie read off the total. How the hell was fabric that expensive? He could afford it, sure, but _damn_. "And how will you be paying, your highness?" she asked, addressing Charlie.

"Oh, this is for Angel!" Charlie laughed, completely oblivious.

"I see." Her voice remained light as she directed her words to him instead. "I'm afraid I can't accept your body as payment. Not the way you sell it, in any case."

He clenched his fists, fuming. "I got cash," he ground out, snatching some bills from his chest and slamming it onto the counter. How he managed to bite back an insult, he'd never know.

"And it isn't all in ones? What a pleasant surprise." She took his money without further complaint, but her dead black eyes never left him until the shop's door closed behind him.

"Everything alright, Angel?" Charlie asked quietly after the short walk back to the limo, or the stomp back in Angel's case. "You seem…tense."

"…expensive as shit," he muttered, head pressed against the window. "Must've cornered the market, the bitch. 's just fabric, can't cost that much."

But as annoyed as he was at spending so much, that wasn't even half the reason he was pissed. It couldn't have been the casual slut shaming, either. He dealt with that on the daily, heard everything she said more times than he could count when he was alive and after his death. It was shitty, sure, but usually he took it with a smirk and a snappy comeback. So what, exactly, made the bitch such a bitch? That'd take a little soul-searching later, if he felt like figuring it out. One more perk of hell: endless opportunity for self-refection. Funny how that one was a downside, too.

Frowning, Charlie placed a hand on his knee. "Well I'm sorry she said those things to you," she said. "That wasn't cool."

So the broad was a little more observant than she let on. She caught the lie, even if she came to the wrong conclusion "I've heard way worse, y'know." He put his hand on top of hers anyway, giving it a light squeeze.

They were quiet for a moment, but Charlie soon grew an impish grin. "So…" she began innocently, drawing out the word, "what are you making for Al?"

"Goddamn it!" He tore his hands away, shoving her lightly. "Shut the hell up, I ain't sayin' shit to you!"

But she laughed, falling into the door, and he forgot all about hating Rosie's guts.

* * *

Thanks for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: brief gore description. Nothing worse that what we see in the show, though.

* * *

Chapter 5: Threading Your Needle

Charlie bugged him for details nearly the whole ride back, but considering it only took about five minutes, Angel didn't get too annoyed. That didn't mean he spilled, though. Not only did the idea of letting her think her redemption shit was actually working make him physically sick, but Alastor would literally kill him, hotel or no. He might have gotten away with arguing him in public, but letting anyone know he was going to wear a dress? No way. He had a reputation to keep, and something told Angel that crossdressing wouldn't jive with it.

Speaking of Alastor, he should probably let the deer demon know he was back. Their sip and stitch shouldn't be postponed. But his favorite bartender looked oh so lonely, sitting there with his face leaning on his paw, and a little pregaming never hurt anyone.

"Oh Husky," Angel flirted, draping himself over the bar.

"Fuck off."

"Oh, don't be like that, kitty," he said with a pout, playing with Husk's whiskers. "Is that any way to treat a paying customer?"

Husk swiped at his hand. Angel pulled away just in time to miss the sharp claws. "I ain't gettin' paid jack shit!"

"Eh, technicalities." He took the opportunity, Husk still batting away one set of hands, to boop his cute little nose using one of the extras. "A blowjob, if you please."

"Better mean the goddamn cocktail."

"Hey, I ain't picky!"

Grumbling, Husk slapped a shot glass on the bar and reached for the Bailey's and Kahlua. Cocktail it was, then. "Your fucking blowjob," he said, squirting in the whipped cream with an expression of disgust.

Angel raised the shot in a half-cheer before downing it, making sure to get plenty of whipped cream on his lips to lick off obnoxiously.

Husk's scowl deepened. He snatched his own never-ending bottle of booze—the lucky bastard—and took a drink. "'Fore I forget," he said, pointing with the bottle, "Alastor went out earlier. Said he'll be back 'round lunch, maybe a little after."

"It's already almost noon," Charlie interjected, putting her hands on the bar and leaning about three inches from Angel's face, making him jump.

"Why does everybody keep doin' that!"

"He should be back soon then, right?" she continued without acknowledging Angel.

"Do I look like his keeper to you? I don't know anything but what he told me."

"We'll wait for him down here then," she said, "and Angel can tell me more about the gift he's making for him!"

"I never should've fuckin' said that!"

Husk actually laughed, or at least snorted a bit. Either way it was the most joy Angel had seen him express since he started working at the hotel. "I guarantee you that Al ain't gonna be interested in any _gift_ you're plannin' on givin' him."

"Hey!" Angel said. "I'll have you know Al is _very_ interested in this gift! We spent like an hour yesterday plannin' it out!"

"So he knows what he's getting," Charlie said. She turned to Husk. "Could you get me a Shirley Temple, please? We might be waiting a little while. So Angel, what's the plan?"

Angel groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "There's no fuckin' plan, shut up!"

The front door chose that moment to swing open, saving his ass. Alastor stepped into the lobby. He wore his signature smile, face splattered slightly with blood. His clothes were as immaculate as always.

"Hey Al," Charlie said waveringly, "what, uh. Whatcha got there?"

"Sewing supplies!" He held the bag up cheerfully, rolls of fabric bonking together. In his other hand, a nearly unrecognizable demon's head lolled. Blood leaked from a hole in its head that could have once been a mouth, nose, ear, or eye, or maybe the hole hadn't originally existed at all. There were definitely more holes than the average sinner tended to have in the face area.

Charlie stared. "I, uh, actually meant the other…where have you been?"

"Official business. Nothing you should concern yourself with." Alastor's shoes clipped across the floor, the corpse dragging along behind him. His eyes met Angel's and his grin widened. "I see you've returned from the Emporium unscathed," he said. "Very good. Why don't you run along and have lunch? I have a bit more…business…to handle."

"Howzabout you join us?" Angel countered on impulse.

He called the elevator. "No thank you, Angel, my dear. I've already eaten."

"Wait!" Charlie called. "Al—!" But the cage closed behind him and sent him to an upper floor. "…well shit," she said weakly after a moment. Husk, completely nonchalant about the situation, placed her Shirley Temple in front of her. She took a sip.

"Guess it wasn't the Hotel then," Angel mused aloud.

"What was that, Angel?

"Nothin', toots," he said. "Hey, 's it alright if I skip out on lunch? Wanna get started on, uh, Al's gift."

"Well," she said, "hmm." She bit her lip, eyes never leaving the trail of blood. "I guess so. But be sure to make it to dinner! Communal meals are very important for building relationships."

"I'm Italian, Charlie, I think I know that." He stood from the bar and grabbed his bag. "See you at dinner."

The elevator couldn't take him to his room fast enough. He felt a little bad leaving Charlie to deal with the carnage all on her own, but Niffty would be by in a bit to clean the blood and Vaggie would help deal with the publicity and attempting to threaten and/or beg the Radio Demon not to do it again. Besides, Angel had more important things on his mind. Mainly Alastor himself.

Because what the fuck, right? What the fuck!

He wasn't surprised by the killing, he thought as he sat on the floor and leaned against his bed, Fat Nuggets snuggling up beside him. He hadn't dismissed all of Vaggie's warning, and he'd seen his ruthlessness firsthand when he fought that pretentious snake. No, Angel was surprised that Alastor brought the corpse back to the hotel. Because he didn't have to. He could have left it in the middle of the street, or bar, or wherever the Radio Demon did his "business", and come back to the hotel where Charlie would be none the wiser. Who cared about hiding the body when there's no police? But he brought the body back to the hotel. Where demons were meant to stop sinning. And while some things were more subjective, murder was definitely a sin, last Angel checked. What the hell happened to caring about the hotel's reputation?

The only explanation Angel could think of was that he never cared. That opened up a whole other can of worms, though, because then what was keeping Alastor from just offing him? Jack shit is what. Jack. Shit.

Great, all the worrying and was making him antsy. His legs felt tingly, wanting him to pace, but fuck that. Nuggets was curled up on his lap so, legally, he couldn't stand up. He stroked under the pig's chin and rubbed their belly, but even that didn't quell his nervous energy. His hands itched to move, to do. To make.

His eyes fell on his shopping bag and his hands twitched.

"Goddamn it," he said, grabbing the craft paper. He might as well try to figure out pattern making. Guess he wasn't lying to Charlie, after all.

* * *

An hour and a half was plenty of time to deal with a body, right? Angel thought so, at least, so that's how long he gave Alastor before heading down to his room. Or up to his room. Or down the hall to his room? It was embarrassing, really—he still couldn't seem to remember where Al's room was for the life of him. It was definitely on the fourth floor last time, wasn't it? At least the door was distinctive or he'd be searching the hotel for another hour and a half.

Once he found the door, he hesitated, listening to soft jazz playing on the other side. Maybe Al wasn't done. Maybe he'd knock and interrupt and he'd kill him, too. The hotel wasn't stopping him, after all.

Then he decided oh-fucking-well and knocked anyway.

"Ah, good, the towels!" Alastor said. "Do come in, darling."

"It still ain't Niffty."

"I see. Just a moment." There came a sound of something—furniture?—sliding across the floor, then cabinets closing. "Alright, do come in my arachnid associate! Forgive the mess, I was just finishing up."

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a bit longer than it strictly had to, but he opened the door and stepped in.

He half expected a bloodbath, entrails hanging from the ceiling fan and smeared across the walls. It was…not like that. If he hadn't known any better, he'd have guessed someone had a messy nosebleed, or if he were at the studio that somebody was running around with a red elephant. A smear of red lay on the floor where the couch and coffee table usually sat. A little drying and it could be easily covered with a nice rug, if Niffty weren't so anal about cleanliness.

"My apologies, Angel," Alastor said, wiping his hands on a bloody towel. An even bloodier apron had replaced his usual jacket. That fit Angel's expectation a little better. "I didn't expect you today, what with the _surprise_ you're working on. I thought I wasn't meant to see it until the finished product?"

"And you're not gonna! I ain't workin' on the dress with you, but I wouldn't want to miss our sewing club, would I?" He winked and closed the door behind him, hoping his nerves weren't showing.

"Well, nonetheless, I'm afraid I have nowhere for you to sit," he said. He untied his apron and hung it on a peg near his wardrobe before stalking to the bed, tapping the mattress with his microphone. "Perhaps the bed will do? At least until the floor is cleaned."

The bed? He'd thought about joining the Radio Demon on his bed, but never imagined he actually would, not even as innocently as Alastor proposed. It felt nearly too intimate. Sure, it was just as easy to fuck on a couch, but a bed was personal. Angel swallowed. "You know I'd never say no to joining a handsome fella in bed," he flirted easily, covering his hesitation as he sauntered over.

"If you start that again, I rescind the offer."

He mimed zipping his lips as he sat, pulling his best innocent face. That was fun to try; it was probably the only look he didn't have perfected from filming. Sighing as if in defeat, Alastor sat beside him, close enough for Angel to notice one thing that didn't fit the murderous image: a ponytail. Alastor's hair was pulled low on the back of his neck in an honest-to-god ponytail.

"What project do you plan on working on, if not the dress, then?"

"Right," he said pulling his eyes away from the tiny tail, "uh, I figured I could use some practice before I jump in with the dress, y'know? So hopefully it'll be less a train wreck and more just a little fender bender. And you're the expert here, so…" He shrugged. "What do I need to know?"

Alastor's eyes lit up, smile growing wide. "Oh, I am so glad you asked."

So either Al had some huge-ass internal database of potential projects to choose from plus a search feature that made use of the keywords "slutty spider", or he had been planning Angel's sewing lessons for a while now. At this point, Angel figured they were equally likely. Al was just that fucking weird.

"Small projects, of course," he said, pacing the floor, "nothing that will take more than a day, if the dress is still your priority. Things you'll use, but which build the skills you'll need." He pulled sheets of craft paper, sewing patterns, from a cabinet and dropped them on the bed. "A bowtie! A button-up shirt! A fitted skirt with a zipper! Pig booties!"

"Pig booties?" Angel stopped him, holding up the pattern. "_Pig booties_? You already have a pattern for _pig booties_?"

"Well, not for a pig specifically," Alastor conceded, "but like the bowtie, it will help you practice sewing around curves, and the boots will also help with working with panels. And you do dote on that animal."

"Smiles, I don't care what I have to do. I am making those pig booties _right now_."

He laughed, tinged with radio static. "We may have to alter the pattern a bit first. As I said, the pattern wasn't designed for a pig. We'll need the creature's shoe size, or perhaps you could bring…what was its name? Nuggets? You could bring Nuggets over for a fitting."

"Fuck yeah I will!" He jumped up and ran for the door just as it opened.

Niffty zoomed in, arms piled high with towels. "Sorry I took so long, Mister Alastor!" she chirped, dropping them off on the only clear spot of the bed. "Oh, hi, Angel. The storage closet was such a mess, I had to organize it first! And these towels were just filthy, so I did a load of laundry, and while I waited for the towels I—oh look!" She bounced in place. "That's the pattern for the slippers you made me! Are you making Angel some slippers too, Mister Alastor? I think Angel's feet are a little bigger than mine, though, you'll probably have to make a whole new pattern! Or you could use the printer downstairs to make a copy, but bigger! Miss Vaggie showed me how to use it when I wanted a pattern for making cookie cutters, it's not too hard to use, I could show you, Mister Alastor!"

"Not today, darling," he said, "but thank you! I do detest most modern inventions, but I can see how copying papers would be quite convenient."

"Of course, Mister Alastor!" She hopped over to the blood spatter. "Just this stain, right, sir? I know you don't like me going through your things, but I could—"

"Yes, just the blood there, dear. And there's also a bit in the sink and the towels in the hamper. Wash those, would you? And the apron."

"Right!"

Angel watched the interaction from the door, unsure what to make of it. It was nearly wholesome, the way he talked to her and actually listened, or it would be if they weren't cleaning up a homicide.

"Go on, then, my dear fellow," Alastor said, shooing him out from his seat the bed. "Don't you have something to do?"

"Pig booties?" was all he had to say in response.

"Go get your pig, Angel."

Just as he went for the door a second time, Niffty's voice rang out from the bathroom.

"Oh, man! Uh, Mister Alastor? Sir? Whose skirt is this?"

Angel froze. His skirt. He'd left for his shoot so fast he forgot to grab it after his little fashion show. His eyes locked onto Alastor's face, silently assessing his expression. Obviously he caught what that implied, what it could mean that Angel was half-naked in his room. Judging by her pink face, Niffty caught it, too. Angel remembered all too clearly that first meeting, that offer and immediate refusal. Would he be mortified by the very suggestion of something untoward? Would he get pissed? Would he blame Angel, take it out on him?

But his smile stayed perfectly in place, never faltering. "Oh dear, that would be Angel's!" He didn't bother to explain, to deny.

"Oh," Niffty said. "You can't go leaving your clothes around like that, Angel, people will start to think you're a hussy! And your boots and skirt like that already give that impression a little bit, no offense. The one you're wearing now is better than this one though!"

Ignoring her comment, he decided to push. "Hey, I left that in case you wanted to borrow it, Smiles. We got about the same waist size, don't we?"

She laughed, loud and bubbly. "Oh Angel, that's so silly! Us ladies might be wearing pants now, but a gentleman like Mister Alastor isn't going to wear a dress anytime soon!"

A sudden pop of static cut off the jazz and startled her, interrupting whatever tangent she'd go off on next. "Hah!" Alastor said. "Niffty darling, you've finished the bathroom already? Wonderful! Do be a dear and wash these towels then, and I do believe Charlie's been working to clear out a new wing, why don't you go help her with that? Thank you my dear!" He nudged her around Angel and out the door, closing it before she had time to protest.

"Touchy about that, huh?" Angel said, knowing he'd regret it.

A crackling hiss was all the answer he needed.

"Alright, I'll go grab Nuggets, give you a few—"

"Why don't we continue our sewing lessons tomorrow, Angel."

It wasn't a request.

"Oh," he said dumbly. "Yeah, sure." He opened the door, stepped out, and paused. "Same time, same place?"

Alastor closed the door without responding.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! And especially thanks for all the great reviews! As always, all comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: A couple warnings at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 6: Making your Mock-Up

Okay, so that went well. In retrospect, Angel's little test was a shitty idea. He just had to _know_, though. The day Alastor first started teaching him, he said he couldn't care less what people said about him. The whole persona—because the whole radio announcer shtick had to be one—said the exact opposite. A reputation was critical to a sinner's life in hell, and the 20's gentleman thing? The radio cannibal thing? Crossdressing doesn't fit. And sure, poking the bear definitely ran the risk of evisceration, but Angel had to know just how much Alastor actually cared what other demons said.

Yes, he _had_ to know, damn it! If he was going to work with him, get him all dolled up and as gorgeous as he knew Al could be, he had to know exactly how much he hated it. Because Alastor _did_ hate it, he made that pretty goddamn clear every time he mentioned Angel's look with disgust dripping like venom from every syllable. He had to know if all his hard work was going to go down the shitter. He had to be prepared in case Alastor took his discomfort and frustration out on him.

But he never had, not yet. Alastor had never laid a hand on him violently, even after Rosie's. Even this time, when the humiliation happened with someone he actually seemed to care about. And now he thought on it, he only talked badly about Angel's job, not his clothes. He only ever said their tastes were different, not than Angel's were bad, or wrong, or shameful…

Alastor obviously hated the whole idea, though. Angel saw it. The way he stiffened when he talked about drag, like the very idea was revolting. The way he reacted with Niffty, embarrassed and half-ashamed. Hell, he straight-up called the whole thing strange and said he only agreed because he'd try anything once.

But he still agreed. And even after Angel was such an asshole, such a hypocrite, after he got one of the only people Al could begin to consider a friend to laugh at the idea, Alastor asked him to come back. To keep working on this strange, embarrassing thing he hates. Sure, he also said fuck off, but he said _come back_.

"_Fuck_," Angel said, pressing his knuckles into his eyelids.

Fat Nuggets oinked, sounding almost annoyed.

"I know, baby," he sighed, "I have to apologize. _Shit_. But not tonight, Nugs. I'll give him his space 'til tomorrow." Because apparently, he needed it. Alastor hadn't been at dinner or at the bar after, which wasn't unheard of but definitely was unusual. But that was fine.

Angel checked his phone—only nine. He might be consistently waking up before nine in the morning now, but no way in hell would he be sleeping anytime soon. He used up his three drinks after Al kicked him out, but maybe he could bug Husk enough to make him "miscount", not that that'd worked before. Val hadn't texted, so passing time at the studio was out. He could for a quick cash grab, replenish his savings a bit, but…

He sighed, stretching. "Why the fuck not." He found his bag of fabrics and rolled out the muslin. "So much for practicin' first."

He wasn't quite sure what he was doing, but Alastor had explained the basics of using patterns and he had the one he made earlier. Or at least had attempted to make. He'd found something similar to the look he wanted online and copied the general form of it to the craft paper using Alastor's measurements. The only problem was how he wanted the dress to hang a bit, not be skin tight. The extra inches he added around the waist were pure guesswork. But hey, the top was taking shape, at least as well as it could in shitty white upholstery cotton held together with pins. He'd figure out the details and actually stitch it together after he got Alastor to try it on.

_If he tried it on_, he reminded himself. Because after that comment, he might not even want anything to do with Angel anymore. _Shit_.

A knock came at the door. "Random welfare check," Vaggie called, "you know the drill, ten seconds to respond or I'm coming in."

"I'm right here, jeez!"

"Are you decent?"

"As ever." Setting the pattern aside, he stood and opened the door with arms held out wide. He'd had enough checks to know what was coming next, no sense waiting for her to ask. "And as you can see, there's no illicit drugs, no alcohol, no needles—"

"That's a needle," she pointed out with a smirk, tilting her head to the one with thread hanging from it in one of his extra hands.

"So you _do_ do jokes, huh? Too bad they suck. No wonder you're so goddamn serious all the time."

"I wondered why you asked Charlie to take you to buy fabric of all things. She said you were making Alastor a present or something, but I figured it was for lingerie." She peered through the gap between his arms. "Doesn't look like lingerie. What is it, anyway? Looks like a shirt or—"

"None of your business," he snapped, blocking her view. "You can see I ain't gettin' fucked up, check's over. Now shoo, fly."

"Fine, I was just making conversation," she huffed, turning to leave and muttering as she went. "Touchy about shit today, huh?"

Something in Angel's chest tightened. It froze him in place, made him suck in a breath and grip his doorframe tight enough to splinter the old wood. Still he clung, holding that breath waiting for the feeling to pass. It didn't. It kept that vice grip when he dug his fingertips into his skull, even as the needle still in his hand poked into his scalp sharp enough to draw blood. He flung it blindly into the fabric pile, breath coming in shallow gulps, and still the feeling persisted. He had to get away from it.

The feeling only abated in an alley three streets away, his window back at the hotel propped open, curtains and broken strands of spidersilk flapping in the breeze. With his back pressed hard against brick, he finally breathed easy.

* * *

Angel fell back through the window and into bed just before sunrise with a chest full of cash, a face smeared with mascara, and a distinct lack of underpants. He definitely remembered putting them on that morning. He must have lost them somewhere between the club, the alley, and the back of some John's car. Or maybe the front seat. Oh well. They weren't any of his favorite panties, anyway.

The alarm he forgot to turn off woke him up barely two hours later. Even though he couldn't go back to sleeping late without arousing suspicion anyway, he still screamed his frustration into his pillow. Poor Nuggets squealed in concern.

"Daddy's fine, baby," he said, cracking his back. "Just tired. Gonna get a shower and I'll be alright, 'kay?"

He sure didn't feel alright. By the time he finished washing up that clawing feeling returned, and this time he had nothing to stave it off. Dimly, he wished he'd thought to buy some drugs while he was out, but pushed that thought away. He didn't feel like dealing with detox all over again. That didn't stop the sudden craving, of course. Ants crawled under his skin while he got dressed and did his makeup, nearly distracting from the squeezing ache in his chest but not quite. Once he got his face on, though, he was confident no one could tell how alright he didn't feel. He just had to make it through breakfast, then he could get the apology over with and finally be rid of that fucking guilt. Why did he have to be stuck with a conscience, anyway?

"Hi, Angel!" Charlie said as he sat down, way too cheerfully nine in the morning. "Up early again, great! I'm glad you're making it a habit."

"Looks like he's regretting it," Vaggie said. "_Buenos días, cariño_. Up late working on your secret project?"

He dropped a few fruit pastries on his plate and glared. He knew enough Italian to tell when he was being mocked in Spanish. "Nuneya."

"I'm sure Alastor will love it, whatever it is!" She grabbed the coffee pot and circled around the table to stand beside his chair. "And what is it, by the way?"

"Your coffee bribe won't work on me, princess. Still drinkin' it, though. Gimme."

She looked tempted to refuse, but thought twice about getting between the spider and his caffeine and poured it for him.

"Thanks. Sugar?" Vaggie passed it over. Angel pointedly skipped thanking her.

"So," Charlie said, sitting back down, "I have a hotel announcement. I would have called a meeting of all residents, but. Well." She held up her palms in a sheepish shrug. "The gang's all here anyway, so."

"Spill, then. We starting group therapy? Ain't much of a group."

"We're changing the drink policy," Vaggie said. "One drink per day, not three."

"Goddamn it!" He threw himself back in the chair, nearly tipping it over.

"But!" Charlie continued. "But we're also instating a token system! Every time you take a step towards redemption, you get a token you can exchange for prizes!"

"At the bar, too?"

Vaggie groaned. "Yes, Angel. At the bar, too."

"One token gets one drink," Charlie said, "or you can save up to buy special privileges, like unsupervised visits from friends. You could have Cherri over!" She grinned, obviously pleased with herself. "The easiest way to get tokens is by making it to meals. You've been coming to breakfast, lunch, and dinner almost every day, so there's one free token right away! Or you can sign up for chores on Niffty's chart here and get up to three tokens per chore, depending on how hard it is…"

Angel tuned her out. He got the gist, she was giving out good boy points. He'd just sign up for laundry duty or something, Niffty would probably still do it herself anyway. He had more important things to worry about than how to suck up for booze. Namely sucking up to Alastor before he decided sewing wasn't important enough to keep him around anymore.

When he went to make up, though, he hit a snag. He couldn't find Al's room anywhere. He checked every residential floor, including the ones still under renovation, and even took the stairs on his second walk through in case the elevator was fucked up and skipped a floor, to no avail. Cursing overlord magic bullshit (and feeling less stupid for getting lost before), Angel took the hint and let him have his space.

That left Angel with a whole lot of time he didn't know what to do with. Shit, he spent less than a week sewing with that smiley bastard and he already forgot what he did without him? What was he doing the day they started? Oh, right, sitting bored out of his mind at the bar. That's why he bugged Alastor in the first place. Probation sucked, and not in the fun way.

He couldn't risk sneaking out again, not during the day. Charlie bugged him to socialize if he spent too long in his room alone and Vaggie liked to keep tabs on him when he was up and about. Besides, he didn't want to miss lunch, if that was his only way to get extra booze. That left sewing, playing with Nuggets, wasting his one drink, or mindlessly refreshing social media. He couldn't take the dress or Nugs out to the lobby, though, and the latter options were about as appealing as Sunday dinner with his family.

Angel sighed, regretting everything about his entire afterlife, and stepped into the main office. "Hey Charlie? Where'd you put that chore chart?"

When she squealed and held him in a bone-crushing hug, he wished Alastor would have just killed him.

He worked with Niffty until lunch, did a quick search of the hallways, then went back to dusting unused rooms when Alastor's door still didn't make an appearance. By dinner, he was too annoyed to be too scared of his wrath. Alastor was the one who invited him back. The least he could do was let Angel in! He headed straight to his room after dinner, refusing to humor the Radio Demon with doing a search the third time, but spotted Alastor's door along the way.

That fear he was too annoyed to feel came back with full force, adding to that awful tightness in his chest. He shook it off and knocked. If Alastor didn't want to see him, he wouldn't let it happen.

"Come right in, my colorful colleague!"

Okay, the terror was back again. Alastor's voice was casual, cheerful even. He didn't sound mad at all. Why wasn't he mad? Still, Angel shuffled inside. "Hey, Al," he said warily, easing the door shut behind him. "I, uh. Wanted to say so—"

"Why Angel!" he interrupted. "You've forgotten your dear pet! How are we meant to do any work without our model?"

"Yeah, I'll get Nuggets in a bit, first I wanted to talk abo—"

"Nonsense! No sense wasting time when we're already starting so late. We can talk just as well while taking measurements, I'm sure."

"Well yeah but—"

"Run along then! My, weren't you so excited about these boots yesterday? Whatever happened to that?"

Angel stared, deadpan. "Well mainly—"

"Come right back, now!" Alastor pushed him back into the hall. "We've wasted enough time chatting!"

He groaned, but went along with it. He probably deserved it. The room stayed on his floor this time, at least, so he gathered his pig with little incident. Nuggets squealed excitedly when he brought out the leash and snuffled at every corner and doorway on the way.

"Here it is!" Alastor greeted them as they stepped in. "Nuggets! Why, Angel just goes on and on about you, my dear, I am honored to finally make your acquaintance!"

"Yeah, they're real excited to meet you too. Now we need to talk about—"

"Would you hold the pig so its feet are sticking out? I need a few measurements to alter the pattern."

He did so, sitting on the couch. "Alastor," he said, "about yester—"

"Do make it stop wriggling about so much, won't you?"

"Sure, I'll try, but we really shou—"

"Right, that's the length measured, now to do around the—"

"You can't keep deflecting all goddamn night!"

Alastor looked up from the measuring tape, tilting his head. His eyes flashed red. "No?"

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation getting to him, but Angel stood his ground. "No," he said. "You can't. I don't know why you're avoidin' it, but we're gonna talk about yesterday." He waited for the interruption, but this time, it never came. "Alastor, I'm sorry. I nev—"

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear fellow!"

"Come again?"

"You said nothing wrong," Alastor continued. "You were simply teasing the way you always do, with your inappropriate humor. My reaction was overdramatic."

"Your reaction was _under_-dramatic!" He raised one set of arms in the air—probably a little overdramatic himself. He used the other keep Nuggets firmly on his lap. The talk was already excruciating, no need to be interrupted by a pig running off and trying to eat the curtains. "I was an ass, Smiles. You're goin' along with this whole crossdressing thing, humorin' me, and I tease you about it in front of your…" Employee? Friend? Coworker? …child? "…in front of Niffty? That was shitty."

"Forget it, Angel. It's done. I never asked you to keep your little surprise a secret and it wasn't even revealed. Simply keep your mouth shut in the future."

"I ain't gonna just forget it!" Angel said. "I knew you weren't gonna want anyone to know about this. It wasn't, like, an accident. I was pushin' your buttons on purpose just to see how far you'd let me go and I don't have an excuse for it." He stopped, looking away. "I'm sorry."

The apology hung in the air, suspended by tinnitus, for several moments. Neither dared to speak. He couldn't meet Alastor's eyes.

Finally, it was Alastor who broke the silence. "Angel."

He was silent again, but the gentle hum betrayed expectancy rather than apprehension. Angel dared to look at him. His smile was tight at the corners in a way that didn't reach his eyes.

"_Drop it_."

If the words themselves didn't convince him, the accompanying hiss of static did. Even his exhausted mind could understand that. He shut up about it.

So what if Al wouldn't accept an apology? He still gave one. It wasn't his fault if Alastor decided he'd rather ignore shit.

So why did his chest still feel so heavy?

* * *

Warnings: A little heavier on the implied sexual content this chapter, because Angel Dust is Angel Dust. Also, depiction of a panic attack. To skip it, skip to after the line break following the dialogue: "Touchy about shit today, huh?"

As always, thanks so much for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Adjusting Your Pattern

Once they actually started working on sewing, things almost seemed to go back to normal. Almost. Nuggets eased some of the tension just by being their adorable little self, but there was an underlying coldness that even a cute pig couldn't fully alleviate. Radio feedback-filled silence hung heavily between tiny snippets of instruction, and though Angel had never been one to hold his tongue, even he struggled to break through the drone of white noise.

"Hey," he managed to say, two booties finished at his side. Alastor faced him with a sudden crackle of static that left Angel's throat tight, forcing him back to square one in his ongoing negotiation with his vocal cords. "Hey," he repeated, "it's, uh, gettin' kinda late."

He glanced at the clock. "Is it? I thought that you were more a nocturnal creature. You were difficult enough to rouse for our shopping excursion. Have plans tonight, do you?"

"Eh, you caught me," he said without hesitation. "Headin' out, hookin' up. The usual."

"I see." He turned back to his sewing. "Don't let me keep you."

Angel half expected to be escorted to the door like usual, but Alastor kept his eyes trained on the pants he was hemming. "Right," he said. Still, he hovered by the door.

"Is there something you wanted, Angel?" Alastor asked after a long moment.

"Uh, yeah." God, why couldn't he just talk? It had to be the static messing with his head. Or maybe the two hours of sleep he got. "What time you want me back tomorrow? The usual, or later again?"

The static changed frequency and became a crackling hum. "I believe after dinner is a better time for both of us. My duties will be finished and your…excursions," he settled on, "can keep you out as late as you like without a morning engagement."

And Angel kept his handy "it's getting late" excuse. Convenient. "Works for me," he said, popping the door open. "See you, Smiles."

He waited a moment in the empty hallway, but Alastor didn't say goodbye.

Angel headed for the lobby.

"Takin' Nuggets for a walk," he called to Husk, pointing to them and holding out their leash for proof.

"You're still on probation."

"I'm goin' in the garden, that's still part of the hotel. Not like I can escape that way."

Husk made a noise somewhere between a hum and a growl. "Better not come cryin' to me if you try shit and get it extended. You only got like three days left, you know."

"Aw, you're keeping track? How sweet. I'll wait for you if you wait for me, babe!" He blew a kiss and strutted outside before Husk found an empty bottle to throw.

Nuggets, eager to rediscover the brand-new location they'd been to a million times already, pulled at the leash. Closed-in as the area was, Angel unhooked it and let them run freely. They rooted around half-dead trees and completely dead foliage. The courtyard was full of it, all overgrown and dried out from neglect. Charlie had plans on clearing it out and replanting, but between the interview and renovating the most-used rooms, she hadn't had time. Angel and Nuggets were the only ones who used it, anyway. Whoever else felt like getting fresh air could actually step out front without supervision.

Despite the decay, it was peaceful, especially at night. A breeze rustled his fur and some barely-there leaves, and little specks glowed in between lifeless branches. Looking at the red sky, he could almost convince himself they were stars. Almost. Then his eyes landed on that glowing, cloud-wrapped orb in the distance and the spell was broken. Damn Heaven, always ruining shit. That particular depressing thought had no place in his garden mope, though. He needed a distraction.

"C'mere, Nugs," he called. His beloved pet came running, crunching through leaves as they went, and barreled into his legs with a satisfied oink. "Good piggy."

"Change of plans?"

Angel snatched Nuggets off the ground and held them close. His head whipped around, coming face to face with glowing red eyes and a wide smile. "Al! What the hell, man?"

"You ended our sewing lessons early in anticipation of another engagement, 'heading out and hooking up,' wasn't it? Whatever happened to that?"

"It was, uh, cancelled," he lied. "Decided I might as well get out of the hotel somehow anyway."

Alastor's eyes narrowed. "I see."

"Shit, how'd you even know I was here? You lookin' for me or somethin'?"

"Husker told me."

"Goddamn it Husk," he muttered under his breath. "Now you decide to actually do your job, huh?"

"Well," Alastor said, brushing nonexistent dirt from his coat, "I suppose I'll leave you to it."

As he spun on his heel and started back towards the hotel, Angel had an idea. Despite how badly his most recent ideas had gone, he decided to go with it. He could just blame sleep deprivation if things went south. He set Nuggets back down. "I mean," Angel began, stopping Alastor mid-step, "I never asked Husk to keep quiet. Not exactly a secret I'm hangin' out in the garden, you know? But he didn't have to go snitchin' to the first person who came along."

"That is true," Alastor admitted. His back was still to Angel.

"And if somebody asked, that'd be different," he continued. "Like, I'm on probation, Charlie's gotta know where I am, I get it. But maybe I wanted some alone time out here, you know? I'm usually the only one who comes out here and he knows that. You can kinda assume that maybe I'm tryin' to keep to myself."

His tone remained light. "That was quite rude of Husk, if he knew all that. Some things are private."

"Exactly," he said. "Plus, Husk likes bein' alone, too. Acts like you're tryin' to give him a bath if you talk to him. If he doesn't want people buggin' him, he should know better than to invite somebody to bug somebody else, right?"

"That does make him quite the hypocrite, doesn't it?"

"Sure does."

That constant radio drone picked up for a moment, then seemed to switch channels into a different buzz. When he spoke again, his tone was more somber. "I can see how that could be construed as a betrayal of trust. If, of course," he said quickly, "you had trust in him. Though the way he tolerates your eccentricities with only minor protests implies some sort of trust between you."

_Oh_. Angel hadn't considered that. "Yeah," he said. "When you get along like that, a guy really should know to keep his mouth shut about certain things. Especially about stuff you talk about privately."

"I'd imagine you're rather annoyed, then." His shoulders were tense. "Angry, even. But you have a reputation, you know, Angel. You're not affected by those things. To react harshly about something as simple as revealing your location when nothing unfortunate came from it may make you appear…" He paused a moment, as if he changed his mind about something, then settled on a word. "…unbalanced."

His breath hitched. "…yeah," he agreed. "I'm not gonna make a big deal out of it, not in front of anybody. Don't want nobody knowin' it bothered me. But like you said, me and him got this kinda trust thing goin' on. I think I'll talk to him about it a little later, have a drink and let him know that wasn't cool." He swallowed. "Who knows, maybe we'll end up trustin' each other even more than we did before this whole thing."

"Eventually, perhaps. That trust may be somewhat fragile in the near future, however. I wouldn't expect you to share many secrets with our dear bartender anytime soon."

"Course not," he said, "yeah, no. Wouldn't expect that at all. But I figure if I talk to him, he'll know better next time. I don't think he'd be enough of an asshole to do it again."

"No, you wouldn't think so. However, it isn't a matter of logic, is it? For now, I'd imagine you'll be a bit more guarded nonetheless." Alastor's staff twitched in his grip. "Though I think you're right about your planned conversation. Being open with a person does invite more trust, despite whatever way the openness may begin."

"Right." Angel waited a moment in case he had anything else to say. When he stayed quiet, he continued. "Well, thanks talkin' with me, Smiles. Nice to rant about Husk to somebody."

"Of course!" he said as he spun around to face Angel with a flourish, chipper tone returning. "What else are sewing partners for? Many such clubs are known as a 'stitch and bitch' for good reason, you know."

"I'll stick with the drinking version, thanks."

A laugh track played. "I wouldn't expect anything less, my alcoholic arachnid! But don't expect this to become a common thing. Husk is a dear friend of mine, it's quite disrespectful to speak ill of him behind his back. That's what his face is for."

"Right, right."

He turned to leave again. "Well I'll see you tomorrow, Ang—"

"Hey, wait," Angel stopped him once more.

"Yes?"

"About sewing club or whatever," he said. "I'm gonna try to finish the mock-up for your gift tomorrow night but I still wanna finish those booties. Mind if we keep the usual time?"

"Just after breakfast?"

"Yeah, we can do after dinner the next day though."

"But of course." He spun his microphone. "I'll be heading back in now, unless you'd like to stop me again."

"Think I'm good this time, Smiles. See you." Just as he started off again, Angel held up his hand. "Wait!"

He stopped, one ear twitching.

"Just messin' with you."

With a chuckle and shake of his head, Alastor finally stepped back inside.

* * *

"Hey babe," Angel said, sliding onto a barstool. The lobby was quiet, empty except for him and his favorite bartender.

"Why couldn't you have climbed the fence and fucked off?"

"Thought about it, but you'd miss me too much." He tapped the counter. "Plus, I still got a drink tonight."

Husk rolled his eyes. "Surprising as all hell, considering you're down to one. Now pick your poison and get out."

"Hey, I gotta pick carefully. Like you said, one's all I got." He hummed, considering his choice just long enough to make Husk's eye twitch. "Let's see, somethin' relaxing, a nice nightcap. Somethin' hot. Oh, with coffee!"

"Relaxing? With coffee?" He scoffed. "Tch. Guess it ain't like you're sleeping, anyway. Probably gonna sneak out and run back to the studio the second you're done here."

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I would never!"

"Sure you wouldn't."

"Besides," Angel said, "coffee is totally relaxing. It's my third favorite thing to help me wind down after a long day." He smirked. "Ask me about the first two."

"Yeah, no thanks." Husk drug a paw down his face. "Tell you what. You go brew some coffee and I'll pour all the alcohol you want in it, deal? Then you can jump out a window and go fuck a cactus for cash or whatever the fuck."

"Deal," he said, "but I've never fucked a cactus yet. Course I've had some spiky clients, those were fun. Say, you're a cat, do you have barbs on your—"

"Finish that sentence and you lose your booze."

He closed his mouth, then hopped off the barstool and went to make the coffee. Even though he'd like to spend a little longer making old Husky snap his cap, he wasn't about to risk his booze. He liked making coffee, anyway; no one else got it right. Call him a snob, but that drip shit wasn't good for anything but emergency caffeine delivery in the morning, and even then it was only barely drinkable with heaps of milk and sugar. What they called espresso was the only acceptable coffee on any other occasion.

The espresso machine was always a pain to set up. Hardly anyone but him used it, so it stayed packed away in a cabinet rather than take up counter space, but it was nearly a two-demon job to get the huge-ass thing out. It worked out fine for him, though. He had three sets of hands all to himself. He stuck a mug in place and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to heat up.

"So." Angel returned to his stool after a few minutes and slid the mug across the bar. "Why'd you feel like snitchin'?"

Husk's wings bristled. "Fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Al found me in the courtyard. Said you told him I was out there."

"Pardon me for not realizin' it was some big fuckin' secret."

"It wasn't, not really." He chuckled. "Guess I should be thankin' you, anyway, I wanted to talk to him about somethin' and I finally got to."

"He asked, I told him. The hell was I supposed to do, anyway? He's my boss, chrissakes."

"He asked," Angel repeated.

"That's what I fuckin' said. Now what booze do you want in this shit before I change my mind?"

He chose rum, amaretto, and some kind of chocolate liqueur and fucked off to his room as requested. He skipped the window jumping and cactus fucking for the moment, though. There were new developments to over-analyze. Alastor actually talked to him, in a roundabout way, but Angel could deal with emotionally constipated. Maybe. In some ways, the trust thing was more intimidating than the waiting-for-an-excuse-to-kill-him thing.

But under his blankets with a hot boozy drink and Fat Nuggets curling up at his side, despite the chilling prospect of getting friendly with the Radio Demon, despite that terrifying trust, despite whatever Alastor asking about him could mean, Angel found he didn't care. His "fuck it" attitude had worked so far. What use was overthinking things?

With a final sip of his coffee, he turned off his lamp and turned in for the night.

He dreamt of a hazy jazz club and a flapper's red dress.

* * *

And they speak! (Kind of)

I hope you enjoyed! This fic is going to be 10-11 chapters total, just so y'all know.

Thanks so much for reading! And as always, all comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Sewing Your Design

"Mornin' Charlie."

She gasped, smiled her usual giant smile, and turned to give Vaggie a very pointed look. She rolled her eyes and shook her head in response, but had her own tiny smile like she always seemed to when her girlfriend was around. "Good morning, Angel!" Charlie sing-songed back. "You seem much more awake today, and much happier!"

"Guess I slept good," Angel said. Picking up a particularly crispy piece of bacon to munch on, he fiddled with the espresso maker. Guess he forgot to put it back last night. Might as well get some use out of it. "Anybody want a latte, cappuccino, macchiato…?" They gave him their orders and he set to work. Husk was great at the bar, but he had nothing on Angel as a barista.

"Seems like you're taking the new drink policy well," Charlie said, "and the token system and chore chart."

He snorted. "It's just been one day, babe. Maybe put your standards a little higher than that."

"Still!" She clapped her hands. "You've been improving a lot recently, helping out and staying out of trouble and giving hand-made gifts when there isn't even a holiday coming up—"

"I said there ain't no gift!"

"—wait, is there a holiday?" She gasped, covering her mouth. "Oh, no! Is Al's birthday or helliversary coming up? Did he tell you, Angel? We didn't miss it, did we?"

One set of hands flew up defensively, the other still working the espresso machine. "Hey, I don't know shit, toots! He didn't tell me nothin' like that. Bet Husky or Nift would know, if anybody. Try askin' them."

Charlie hummed, leaning her chin on her hand. He could see the plan forming in her head. She'd probably already jumped to decorations and presents and what flavor of cake to serve.

Vaggie nudged her gently. "The announcement, hon?"

"Oh! Right!" She took a deep breath and stuck her hands on her hips. "Angel, I have another hotel announcement. Just for you this time!"

"Oh boy."

"Angel!" she repeated. "Because of your marked improvements and the great strides you've made towards redemption, we're going to shorten your probation based on good behavior. As of today, you're officially free to leave and enter the hotel at will!"

"As long as you stay out of trouble while you're out," Vaggie added, "and you don't bring your bullshit back with you."

He nearly dropped his mug. "Holy shit," he said quietly, then louder. "Holy shit! Fuck yes!" Cackling like a madman, he raced from the kitchen, door slamming into the wall with a bang as he burst through. He couldn't decide where to go first—Cherri, to tell her the good news and bust a few skulls? A real bar, where he could get shitfaced without trading in good boy points? The studio, to hang out with some of his favorite costars who were never on shift when he managed to sneak out?

He stopped suddenly, right before the entrance. Just stood there in the middle of the lobby biting his lip.

"The fuck's got into you?" Husk asked between swigs of his cheap booze.

Without responding, Angel turned on his heel and walked back to the kitchen at a more sedate pace. He heard the girls talking as he approached.

"—told you he'd—" Vaggie's eyes fell on the figure in the doorway. "Angel?"

"Angel, you're back!" Charlie said. "We thought you'd be out all day celebrating."

He shrugged, slipping into his seat with his coffee and another piece of bacon. "Got my sip and stitch and bitch or whatever the fuck with Smiles in a bit. I got time for all kinds of celebrating later."

He didn't miss the way she turned to Vaggie and mouthed "I told you!"

* * *

This time, finding Alastor's room took almost zero effort. Angel took one flight of stairs to get to the residential floors and it was right there, waiting for him. When he knocked, Al responded immediately with a "come in, Angel!" He was waiting for him, too.

"So glad you could make it, my dear fellow," he said as he ushered him inside. "Have you spoken to Charlie lately?"

"Hell yeah I did," Angel said, sprawling across half the sofa with his arms folded behind his head and over his stomach. "Probation's over! Now I'm back to doin' whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want. 'S long as it don't get back to Charlie, I guess."

"Very interesting."

Without elaborating, Alastor went off to gather the sewing supplies, shoes clicking on the wood floor. He hummed some old song as he piddled about, taking his sweet time to pick through the fabrics even though Angel could plainly see all the supplies he'd been using before set to one side of the cabinet.

Angel gave him a few moments to continue before he got impatient. "What's so interesting?"

"You, my dear."

Okay, he hadn't been expecting a straight answer at all, but he especially hadn't expected that one. He opened his mouth to demand more of an explanation, but Alastor continued without prompting.

"You've just been given your freedom," he said. The usual radio drone picked up for a moment, then switched to a different pitch. "_You're officially free to leave and enter the hotel at will!_" Charlie's voice said before the drone returned to its original sound. "You now have all the nine circles to visit at your leisure after being trapped in this particular pit of suffering for weeks, yet you've chosen to remain in what had been your prison."

"It wasn't that bad," Angel said, forcing a laugh. "I mean, I made it out like every other day anyway, not like I was cooped up too much."

"A prison is a prison, Angel, no matter how poor the guards."

"It ain't prison if you can get out whenever you feel like it."

Alastor's eyes lit up red, smile pulled stiff, static picking up. Somehow he'd crossed the room to loom over Angel from behind the couch like a gargoyle on top of an old Catholic church. "_It is a prison if you make it so._" The shrieking buzz rang in Angel's ears another moment before dying out. Alastor's face unfroze, no longer a statue. "Though you snuck out, you only ever did so on someone else's orders. When you did escape, you willingly returned before morning. While these walls did not hold you, you held yourself. You had every chance to leave and not return, to forget all about this redemption nonsense, yet you come back again and again. To this prison of your own making."

Angel swallowed. "'S a free room," he said, shrinking into the couch. "I ain't gonna risk losin' that just 'cause I wanna go clubbin' today 'stead of tomorrow. We got eternity, y'know."

"If I recall," he said, standing straight and glancing to the side in thought, "you have a free room already, don't you?" He looked Angel right in the eye, grin turning wicked. "At the studio."

"Shut the fuck up!"

He ignored the outburst. "So it isn't really about the room, then, is it? You must have some other reason to put up with all this. Some reason to stay here, rather than return to your old ways."

Three clawed hands dug into the cushions, the fourth clutching his chest. "You don't know shit," he hissed.

"Perhaps not," Alastor conceded, "perhaps I'm missing some crucial piece of information. But to me, Angel…it seems you might believe in redemption after all."

Oh. That's where he was leading to. It didn't seem to fit the theme Al had been going with, the prison and escape thing, but what did Angel know about how that creep's mind worked? He really should learn to kick his expectations to the curb as far as the Radio Demon was concerned.

He couldn't let Alastor know he'd missed the mark, though, or he'd go poking for it harder. Angel took great care to avoid showing his surprise and relief. Rather than letting himself relax, he tensed further, poking little holes in the upholstery. Faking extreme reactions was what he did best. "Hell no!" he nearly shouted, "I don't fucking—fuck off!"

With that, he swung his legs off the couch and stormed to the door, but nearly hesitated halfway across the room. Was that too extreme? He had wanted to finish those booties, but if Al was going to be an ass…

"Touchy about that, are you?"

Angel stopped. He turned, unamused, to a very amused overlord.

Alastor laughed along with his imaginary audience. "Pardon the antagonism, Angel," he said, absolutely unapologetic, "but I don't allow slights to go unrepaid."

"That wasn't the same and you know it." Still, he perched back on the couch with crossed legs and arms.

"Oh?" Alastor asked, sitting beside him, "Would you prefer if I'd questioned you in front of Charlie? Or perhaps that bomb-loving belle you hang around?"

…yeah, that was fair. But it didn't mean he'd stop pouting anytime soon.

Alastor didn't seem to mind. He rolled some fabric out and went about tracing a pattern, which prompted Angel to actually start what he came to work on, too. He wasn't sure when the supplies had made their way to the table, but he didn't question it. The silence was peaceful despite that little discussion only a few moments before. Al started playing music at some point, classic and jazzy. The silence remained until Angel had pinned nearly the whole boot.

"I did have a real question for you, Angel," Alastor said, "before I chose to irritate you."

"Yeah? Shoot." He stuck another pin in. "I can just stomp off again if I don't like it."

"That sounds agreeable!" He played another brief laugh track. "Well then, why is it you've chosen to remain at the hotel?"

The next pin Angel stuck in with more force than necessary. "Feelin' kinda stompy, Smiles."

"I meant today, after Charlie lifted your probation."

"You mean why didn't I run off as soon as I had the chance?"

"That's one way of asking, yes."

"She told me at breakfast," he said quietly. He poked the last pin through and reached for the needle and thread, never taking his eyes off the boot. "I would've missed our meeting. I'm a lot of things, Al, but a flake ain't one of 'em."

"I see."

The silence returned, changed somehow, punctuated only by rustling fabric and particularly loud saxophone riffs. Angel could stand it for only a few seconds before breaking it. "This shit is startin' to sound like an interrogation. How 'bout we turn this thing around? I get to ask you some questions now."

Alastor hummed. "Fair enough. But first!" He snapped his fingers. The two glasses from last time appeared in his hands. "What's a sip and stitch with nothing to sip, hm? I'll even let you choose the drink this time."

He didn't have to think. "Make it whiskey."

A bottle appeared on the table. "Oh?" he asked, pouring a few fingers. "A bit unexpected, I must admit. I've seen your choices at the bar."

"I was a mafia man before I died, got used to the tough guy drinks. Had to, 'specially after Pops caught me all dolled up and I had to dive headfirst back in the closet." He grabbed the glass and carefully took a drink the 'right way', the way that wouldn't get him called a pansy. "I'm countin' that as another question, by the way. Feel like lettin' me ask one yet?"

"Oh, by all means. I'm not stopping you, you know."

"Sure you're not," he said. He took another drink of whiskey, more of a sip this time. "Why d'you keep puttin' up with me?"

Maybe he shouldn't have led with that. Maybe he should've asked something simpler and worked his way up. He never was big on foreplay, though. Sure he could play the long haul if he had to, but he preferred a more instant gratification, or at least being able to actually see the progress. But whatever he should have done differently didn't matter, because Alastor's reaction alone was worth it. He paused just as the glass reached his lips in honest surprise, and almost imperceptibly, the music skipped.

He recovered quickly, once more perfectly poised, but the surprise was definitely there. "You're a guest at this hotel, Angel," he said, setting his glass back on the table without having taken a drink. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I've been an annoying little shit," Angel said. "An absolute jackass, like, this whole time. I'd've kicked myself out day one, y'know? Or at least after I grabbed you by your fuckin' throat in public."

"Oh, if you'd grabbed my throat, you would have been a smear on the pavement."

He rolled his eyes. "Tie, then, whatever. Point is, you don't need to do this. But you're hangin' out with me every day, invitin' me into your room, lettin' me make you a goddamn dress, for fuck's sake! All because you want somebody to sew with? I don't buy it."

Alastor was quiet for a moment. The song in the background played out with a long, low note, and no new song replaced it. "Before I answer your question," he said in the silence, "I'd like to ask you one more of my own."

"…I guess, sure."

"It's the same question you asked me that first day, when you came to me for entertainment. Why sewing?"

"What do y—you're the one who suggested it, Smiles."

"I did," he said, "and you agreed, and then you continued. Why?"

Angel bit his lip. If he wanted a real answer, he'd better give one too, shouldn't he? "Thought it'd be a good thing to know," he said. "I don't exactly have the most typical shape, with the extra arms and the fluff with my skinny ass. Plenty of weirder ones, sure, but I still gotta pay for alterations if I want anything more fitted than a potato sack and wider than a postage stamp. Figured I'd save some cash if I could figure out how to do it myself."

"And why did you continue?"

"…I liked it," he said with a small smile. "I liked it a lot. I got all excited seein' the pin cushion come together, then the skirt, and I was makin' shit I could actually use. It—" He moved his shoulders in a barely-there shrug. "It just felt good, y'know?"

Alastor's grin softened, no longer showing his teeth. "That's why I've put up with you."

"'Cause I like sewing?" He snorted. "Come on Al, it can't be that hard to find somebody who likes to sew."

He shook his head. "Husker is far too lazy for any of the domestic arts barring the bare minimum to keep comfortable, and it seems he's decided that even purchasing clothing is well above the minimum, let alone making it himself. Niffty gets far too anxious sitting still for long periods, no matter what it is she's working on. Vaggie, I'm sure, would not appreciate any invitation from me. Charlie would fall in the same category as Niffty, or else would gather the entire staff into a sewing club, which I'd rather avoid. Rosie sews, but only for practicality rather than enjoyment, and she uses a _machine_." He nearly shuddered at the word, spitting it out as if it were a curse. "Every other acquaintance of mine is far too busy to meet with any regularity, and any other demon would surely be too intimidated to make a decent conversation partner. No, Angel," he said with an air of finality, "it has to be you."

Angel looked at him. Really looked. He didn't think he'd be able to tell if Alastor was lying, but it sounded genuine, at least. The radio tin had nearly left his voice by the end and his grin remained toothless.

"You're gonna regret sayin' that," Angel said eventually. "I'm gonna be at least twice as obnoxious now I know you're not gonna kill me for it."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, my friend!" The usual crackling effect returned. "If your more annoying traits begin to outweigh my usual enjoyment of your company, I certainly won't hesitate to do a bit of pest control."

"Whatever you say, Smiles, I know you love me," he said with a wink. "So what're you makin' now? A jacket?"

"Indeed! Charlie has been discussing the prospect of a banquet to advertise for the hotel. Nothing is finalized, of course, but I thought it would be prudent to be prepared in case of any more formal events in the future. My usual attire is nearly black tie appropriate, but the coat has certainly seen better days. Appearance is imperative, my good fellow, as I'm sure you know…"

The conversation fell into an easy rhythm, complemented by the jazz that returned just as quietly as it had left. If Angel stayed to chat well after he finished the booties, nobody had to know.

* * *

~Communication~! And without Husk this time! They're doing such a great job, aren't they?

Thanks so much for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Fitting

"Absolutely not."

Angel stared in disbelief. "What do you mean 'absolutely not'? How the fuck else am I supposed to do a goddamn fitting?"

He'd finally finished the muslin mock-up of the dress, for some definition of "finished." Most seams were sewn together now, but certain sections were still just pinned. The sections that were sewn were done about half an inch wider than he thought they needed to be, partly because it was easier to take in a dress than let it out and partly to be sure Alastor could actually get the thing on. Not that it mattered anymore, apparently, considering he refused to get naked.

"I fail to see how that's my problem," Alastor said, eyes flashing.

"What, are you going to wear it over your fuckin' coat?"

"No, I believe the coat can come off."

"But the shirt and pants stay." Angel rubbed his face. "Fuck, why do you have to be such a prude?"

He had the nerve to laugh. "Come now, Angel," he said, removing his jacket and hanging it up, "I've given you quite a bit to work with here. I'm even lifting the five-foot rule for the occasion. Surely you can use a little creativity."

He sighed, hunching in his seat and leaving his face in his hands for the moment. Could he work with that? Well, the dress wasn't supposed to be skin tight anywhere, so maybe…and it was supposed to hang around the waist and hips anyway, so maybe…he groaned. No, no matter how loose the dress was supposed to fit, a fucking button-up, slacks, and belt underneath would make the fabric bunch up weird. There's no way it would lay right over clothes. Besides, he was trying to make Alastor look _good_, not like a five-year-old playing dress-up.

"You know damn well this isn't going to work," Angel said through his palms before bringing his head back up. "If you really didn't want to do this, you could've fuckin' told me, 'stead of lettin' me put all this work in and sabotagin' it at the end."

Alastor's smile was pinched tight. Uncomfortable, of course, like he was with the whole thing. Angel should've known he'd never go through with it. "I'm not against the dress," he claimed despite the evidence to the contrary.

"Could've fooled me."

"Allow me to rephrase: it's not the dress that I'm against."

He was going to bring out the riddles now? Bullshit. "Yeah? And what is it you _are_ against, the fuckin'—the pins? The fabric? The temperature? The—" Angel paused, fishing for any other possibility, then stopped cold. When he spoke again, all venom had left his voice. "Is it me?"

He would have missed it if he weren't looking for it, but the way the corners of Alastor's smile twitched was all the answer he needed.

"It is. It's me."

"Angel—"

The anger came back all at once. "No, you know what, fuck you," he snapped, standing. "It's not like I'm gonna grope you or some shit. I'm a porn star, not a fucking—I wouldn't fucking—" He stopped again. What wouldn't he do? He wouldn't do anything now, of course, but just a few days ago…no, of course not. He _never_ would've done _anything_. But the way he talked, the way he pushed, Alastor had no way of knowing that. "I _wouldn't_," he said firmly.

"It isn't about logic," Alastor said.

Angel sighed. "No, I guess it ain't."

They stood, each silently appraising the other, for several long seconds. Angel finally shook his head and returned to sitting. Alastor joined him on the sofa, though he pressed further into the opposite arm than he strictly had to. He wanted to be as far away from Angel as possible, it seemed.

"It isn't just you," he continued much later.

"Lucky me," Angel said before he had a chance to think, then immediately cursed himself because that had sounded dangerously close to an admission of some kind. He shut himself up then, but it was too late. Alastor had already done the same. _Damn_. But maybe all wasn't lost. "You know," he said casually, "me and, uh, Niffty, we had an argument yesterday."

"Let's not bring Niffty into this."

"Right, sure." He cleared his throat and tried again. "But last night Husk really pissed me o—"

"Husker, either."

"Yeah?" Angel raised an eyebrow. "I'd love to hear your recommendation, then, Smiles."

Alastor's foot bounced manically where it sat on his knee. He was pulled tight and tense as a spring, liable to snap at any moment. "We talk," he said, "like any reasonable people."

"Right, 'cause talkin' reasonable worked so well last time."

Al shot him a look.

"Uh-huh, touchy, got it," Angel said. He sighed again. "Look, do you have any clothes tighter than these? Anything at all? Some fuckin'…long underwear or somethin'? A tee shirt? Would that work?"

He seemed to consider the suggestion. "…one moment," he said, standing and heading towards the bathroom.

Angel waited. He'd seen Alastor's dance routine, so he knew the overlord was more than capable of changing clothes with a snap, but he let it be. Al probably needed the opportunity to psych himself up, as weird as that idea sounded. Who'd expect the Radio Demon would need to psych himself up for anything, especially wearing some fucking clothes?

The bathroom door swung open a few minutes later. Well, 'swung' was a strong word; it opened just enough for Alastor to slip out, with folded trousers draped over his arm conveniently covering most of him. From what Angel could see, he had on some white old-fashioned underwear. They weren't the boxer shorts popular in his time, with elastic that cinched in at the waist and legs that draped almost like an A-line skirt. No, it mimicked the preferred ladies' silhouette of the 1920s instead, the cut straight as a board all the way down with buttons across the front. It fit just a bit tighter than the dress was meant to.

The white fabric would get confusing under the muslin of the same color and the buttons would cause just as many problems as the ones on the dress shirt, but it was definitely an improvement. Alastor probably didn't own anything better, anyway. "There we go," Angel said rather than complain, "that's what I was talkin' about. You know I didn't mean for you to actually get naked, right?"

"I admit the thought crossed my mind." He stepped across the room briskly, ending in front of the large mirror. He had much less pep in his step than usual. Despite that, his shoes still clicked as he walked, because of course he kept his shoes on. "A single rule before we begin: you keep your hands on the dress, not on me."

"I'll do my best," he said, and quickly continued as his ears began to ring, "which I only say because I can't promise I won't bump your leg on accident or somethin' and I don't want you havin' an aneurism thinkin' I did it on purpose."

The static faded to just above the usual level. "That is…acceptable," Alastor conceded. "Where did you put the dress?"

Angel gently lifted it from the bag and held it up. "Right here! Lemme help you get it o—"

With a snap of his fingers, the dress was on.

"…or not, that's cool too."

Angel leaned in. It looked more like a toga than anything, but he tried to see beyond the shit fabric and shittier fit. The general shape was right. He had that going for him, at least. But the seams were puckered down the sides, and he'd definitely added way too much extra give to the waistline, and somehow the front of the dress wound up longer than the back. Guess that's what happened when you tried sewing a dress without a model.

"Goddamn it."

"Something wrong?" Alastor asked.

He glanced up, meeting the eyes of a very nervous-looking deer. Alastor's smile was more of a grimace. If Angel had just seen the expression, he'd have guessed the guy had recently been stabbed. "Just seein' all the mistakes now you're actually wearin' it," he said. "Can't believe I thought I was doin' alright."

"Oh, but you are," he said. "It's terribly difficult to make most clothing without using a form. Many fittings begin with a worse fit than this. I can nearly imagine the way the dress will look when finished."

"Stop imagining, it's supposed to be a surprise."

He chuckled. "I have no doubts it will be, Angel."

"You bet your ass it will be!" Angel reached for his pincushion and a pair of scissors. "Alright, let's see, where do we start this shit…" Probably the most glaring flaw, the too-wide waistline. He slipped off the sofa and crouched. "I'm takin' in the waist," he said as a warning. As soon as Alastor nodded in acknowledgement, he held the fabric out as far from the skin as he could, just to get a good look at how much extra he'd actually used. A shit ton, it turned out. Al was a skinny bitch. Appreciating his three sets of hands, Angel kept both sides even and started pinning.

Alastor remained stiff as a board, red-tipped claws digging into his blackened hands. They'd clench, then flex with fingers splayed, then clench again, drawing blood from wounds in his palm that healed over the second it began to drip. Itching to move, Angel guessed, but not daring to lest Angel accidentally touch him.

"You ever make any dresses?" Angel asked conversationally. Maybe if he kept him talking he'd chill.

"Not many. My mother was a seamstress, you see. I helped her make several, but I've only ever made two myself."

"Y'know, if you didn't get in the radio business, I bet you'd be a pretty good seamstress yourself."

His smile loosened into something more humorous than painful. It still looked like he'd been stabbed, but now he was joking about it. "I believe the term would be tailor."

"No way, a tailor is just the guy who fits suits and shit," he said. "Doin' the other side now. You make clothes, you'd be a seamstress."

"I believe that's what a tailor does, as well," he said, turning slightly to give Angel better access. "They make clothes especially for a client's measurements. Or perhaps a clothier, if 'tailor' doesn't satisfy."

"Nah, nobody says that."

"_Un couturier_?" he suggested. "A bit pretentious, but perhaps I'd have high-end clients. _Haute couture._"

French? Well, Alastor wasn't the only one who could speak another language. "_Un sarto_," he said only to show off, "or keep it simple. Be a seamstress."

"Or a spinster."

"Yeah?" Angel leaned back to look over the dress again. "Gonna do the skirt now. So does that mean the Radio Demon is a confirmed bachelor?"

"Indeed. That sort of thing never did interest me."

He tugged at the fabric around the hips, checking how loose he'd made it, and Alastor jumped. Angel let go immediately, but the damage was done. The quieting buzz shot up to a roar of static. His pupils turned into slits like radio dials.

"_That_," Alastor hissed, "_was not the dress._"

Angel would have laughed if Al weren't freaking the fuck out. "Sorry, man," he said instead, holding up all six hands placatingly, "not tryin' to get your pants off. Can't see what I'm grabbin' underneath."

Slowly, his eyes returned to their usual shape, but kept glowing. The static continued to shriek.

"…wanna take a break?" Angel asked.

"I don't need a _break_," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Didn't ask if you needed one, I asked if you wanted one." He leaned back to sit with his ass on the floor. "'S cool if you do. Hell, I could use one. It ain't easy crouchin' like that. I'm used to bein' on my knees instead."

"You could just as easily—oh, you are vile."

He winked. "It's my job, babe."

Alastor didn't respond. He tapped his foot, and oh, his shoes were off. The click came from a pair of hooves. Angel probably should have expected that, with the antlers and ears and all. "Perhaps a break would be beneficial," he said after a moment.

"Sure thing."

A snap later and the dress was folded on the coffee table. Alastor was back in his usual shirt, pants, and shoes, but the coat remained off. He sat on the couch. Angel chose to remain on the floor.

"So," Angel said, "I know I said I wanted this thing to be a surprise, but what do you think?"

"Your sizing was off the mark, but you know that." He leaned back into the cushions, eyes closed. He seemed nearly boneless after how tense he'd been before. "A few seams puckered. I believe your thread is a bit too elastic, try not to pull it so tight next time. Still, it's certainly coming together. Very good first attempt."

"Think so?"

"I know so," Alastor said. "I am the seamstress here, aren't I?"

He snorted. "Yeah, that makes you the expert." He flopped backwards onto the floor, then rolled over to lay on his stomach, resting his chin on his arms. Alastor's words from before his freak out started to prickle in the back of his head. "But a spinster? Really?" he asked after a moment. "No interest at all?"

"I went on a few dates in life, simply because that's what was done, but no. No interest."

"Huh." He kicked his legs in the air, looking at the floor and trying to imagine that. It seemed lonely. "You know," he offered, "could just be 'cause they were dames. Before I found my scene, I never thought I was interested, either."

"I never said they were all women."

Angel lifted his head. "What do y—"

"I believe I've just found a solution," he said, standing suddenly. "Frankly, I don't know how I didn't consider this sooner." He stood beside the mirror and waved his microphone. As it slid through the air, it revealed a mannequin. "Here we are!"

"Oh," Angel said. "I mean, yeah! That'll work, sure."

"I'll transport it to your room once we're done today. I'm sure it will make the work on the finalized design far easier." Alastor snapped his fingers, making the dress appear on the mannequin, and returned to the sofa. "The dress form has my measurements. However, fabric can be a bit finicky when working with a form versus a live model. Movement and posture can change everything. So, I will still be available to try on the mock-up, but you'll be doing any adjustments on the mannequin."

"So no touching," he said. "You're a genius, Smiles."

He chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Even in your pants?"

"No, I've changed my mind, it's nowhere. Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere."

Angel snorted. "Whatever you say. You know you love it." Then he pulled himself onto his knees and walked on them to the mannequin. He had way more adjustments to make.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading. As always, all comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Showing Off Your Creation

"Hey sugartits."

Cherri spun around in her seat, hair almost smacking him in the stomach. "Angie!" She jumped up and hugged him and got a face full of fur for her trouble. "I didn't know if you'd make it, thought those bitches at the hotel might've grounded you again."

"Nope," Angel said, sticking out his chest proudly, "I've been a model resident these past weeks." Then he devolved into cackling, unable to keep up the act for even a minute. He slipped into the chair across the table. "God, could you imagine?"

"Had me scared there for a second," she joked, returning to her seat, too. "Thought you mighta gone soft, you sayin' they let you out on good behavior. Guess your actin's good for somethin' other than porn flicks, huh?"

"Hey! I am _the_ best actor at the studio. I could do movies if I wanted. Val's lucky he's got me contracted or one of the clean places would've snagged me up already."

"Oh, please. I've seen your shit, Angie, nobody's buying it." She pitched her voice up, mocking him. "'Ooh, mista pizza man, I don't got any money for the tip but maybe I can suck yours instead—'"

"Bitch, that is the shittiest New York accent I've ever heard," he said. A waitress stopped by their table. "Get me the iced birthday cake latte, will ya, doll? Extra whip. Thanks. And it ain't my fault the dialogue's corny as hell. I don't write that shit, I'm just readin' lines."

Cherri held her cup up. "Mind bringin' me another mocha with his shit?" At the waitress's nod, she brought her cup back down and took a drink. "But you didn't get in too much trouble, didja? I heard about what happened with the news. Bet the princess was pissed."

He snorted. "I don't think that broad can get pissed. Her girlfriend, though—thought she was gonna run me through with an angel spear. Nearly got me with a throwing knife in the limo. She's been blowin' her fuse at every little thing ever since I joined this fuckin' project."

"She sounds like a real piece of work," she said with a low whistle. "You gotta be dyin' for some action by now. The hell did you do all day? Other than terrorize the staff, obviously."

Angel grinned, flashing his gold tooth. "Oh, you have _no_ idea, toots. But!" He felt around his chest for a moment. Eventually, he produced a bag. "You reminded me. I got a present for ya."

Cherri looked at it suspiciously, but opened it and started digging anyway. "For me? You been stuck at that shitty hotel, how the hell did you—alright, scrunchies, nice, always need those, and—ooh! A new crop top! You know just what I like, Angie." She held it against her chest, checking the size. "Where'd you get it?"

"I made it."

"Like you cut it shorter or—"

"Nope," he said, sticking out his chest with genuine pride this time, "I made it. Sewed it myself. The scrunchies, too."

"Holy shit," she said. "How the hell do you even make scrunchies?"

"Well, I had some extra elastic left over from making—" He stood and did a little twirl, ending with one leg in front of him. "–this skirt!"

She gasped. "Fuck, Angie, I thought you bought that shit! It looks so good!"

"I know, I know."

"Sit back down before your bigass head knocks you over, you conceited son of a bitch."

Laughing, Angel complied. He dragged his chair a little closer. "You like the shirt, though? It ain't too plain?"

"Don't get all insecure on me now, jackass, 'course I like it. Gonna wear it to the club tonight." Cherri elbowed him in the side. "You're comin', right? It's been forever since we got the chance to really party!"

"You know it!" He swung an arm around her shoulders and leaned. It was half a side-hug and half being as asshole about how much height he had on her. "I might've kept myself busy, but fuck I missed this, Cherri."

She leaned, too, and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her elbows on his lower arms. "Missed you too, Angie." She sat up, propping her hands on his knees. "Where the hell did you learn how to sew, anyway?"

His grin returned wider than before. "That's the part you ain't gonna believe," he said. "Alright, take one guess, one wildass fuckin' guess who's been teachin' me. Wildest guess you can think of."

"Shit," she said. "Fuckin', uh—that one dickhead, the—the foot fucker, with the creepy pillow."

"Nope!" He leaned in close. "The goddamn Radio Demon."

"What!"

"Shut up, fuckin' banshee!" Angel said, cackling at her reaction and covering her mouth. "You're gonna get us kicked out, that waitress already hates our fuckin' guts." It would take a lot more than a little yelling to get kicked out of pretty much anywhere in hell, but shouting about the Radio Demon in the middle of the Pentagram couldn't be a great idea. You never knew who was listening.

Seemed like she got the message, because when she batted his hand away and spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "The hell do you mean, the Radio Demon's teachin' you how to fuckin' sew?"

"Exactly what I said. Apparently he saw the shitshow at the tv station and just had to get in on the action, so now he's sponsorin' this bullshit. Guess he's the hotel's muscle now, too, since Pent-ass swung by lookin' for a fight and Smiles threw him in some kinda portal with his freaky shadow tentacles and—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Wait." Cherri waved her hands at him. Her eye was shut, gathering her thoughts. "Angel, babe, you're gonna need to back the fuck up on that last bit, with the shadow portal and shit, but most importantly…did you just call the Radio Demon fucking _Smiles_?"

He blinked. "Yes?"

Her mouth moved as if to speak, but mostly she just continued to wave her arms around wordlessly for a moment or so with her eye almost as wide as her head. If he listened close, he thought, he'd probably be able to hear a faint sound like an espresso machine spewing steam. Incredulity? Frustration? Either way, it reminded Angel of Vaggie when she got too pissed for words—usually at him or Smiles—and he could _not_ have his best girl buddy reminding him of that bluenose.

"Don't see the big deal. He's a smiley bastard so I call him Smiles. It's a nickname."

She looked at him for another second, a smile forming, and laughed. Incredulity it was. "Of course, you're fucking him! God, Angie, you should've led with that, I almost pissed myself!"

Angel was never short of comebacks, but no response came to mind. It died before it reached his mouth, or got stuck in that hollow place that had appeared in his chest at her words. His grin fell before he could stick it in place, but he found he didn't care. His eyes dropped on the table. The waitress had brought his latte at some point. The thought of drinking it turned his stomach even more. "We ain't fuckin', actually," he mumbled.

"I didn't mean it like that."

Her smile was gone, too. She put her hand on his arm, but he shook her off. "No, it's fine. I get it."

"Angie—"

"I know," he said, "I get it. Figured I bagged another overlord, made a connection to climb the ladder the only fuckin' way I can…"

"I figured," Cherri interrupted, "that he was your type. I figured you've been thinkin' of him as your fuck buddy so long you forgot he's an overlord, and that's why the nickname wasn't scary as fuck."

He snorted, more at his own stupidity than anything she said. _Of course. She's Cherri._ "You're half right," he told her. He took a drink of his coffee now that it wasn't nauseating him. "I've been sewin' with Al so long I didn't even think he'd get pissed about the nickname, but I've pissed him off enough that I ain't ever gonna forget he's a goddamn overlord." Angel declined to mention that "so long" was a week.

"You pissed him off? And lived?"

"Ain't that what I do best?"

Her mouth opened, then closed again immediately. He could almost see her thoughts switching tracks from 'slut' to 'asshole' in respect of his most recent minor breakdown. He appreciated it. "Pissin' people off and bailin' out just before they fuckin' kill your ass? Sounds about right."

"But seriously," Angel said, "he's never…never hurt me, or anything. No matter how much of an ass I've been. Threatened a few times, sure, but worst he's done is drag me around, and he wasn't even holdin' my arm tight." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I think I'm friends with the Radio Demon, Cherri. That's scarier than the fuckin' nicknames."

"Hey, no overthinkin' and shit." She poked him in the chest. "If he's your friend, you got nothin' to worry about. Probably. But you said he's workin' with the hotel, right? You're, like, the only guest. He can't hurt you."

"But he's been sabotagin' the redemption thing. We've been drinkin' almost every time we sew and I'm supposed to be cuttin' down."

"'Cause you're his friend. Sewing buddy, drinking buddy—it ain't that much of a stretch."

"And the other day he came out of fuckin' nowhere mockin' me 'cause he thought I believed in that bullshit, but first it sounded like he was bringin' up Val and the—and my—y'know? So I got all pissy, but then he backs off and says it was just revenge for pissin' him off before, and I don't even know what's goin' on with this gift bullshit—"

"Breathe, Angie!" She smacked him on the back as if he were choking. He almost felt like he was. "Calm your tits, dude. Look, there's a good chance he's just fuckin' with you, 'cause you know overlords, but as long as you don't make an ass of yourself any more than usual you're probably safe."

"That's comforting."

"It wasn't supposed to be, you bastard, it's supposed to be a warning!" She shoved him hard, nearly knocking him off his chair. "Don't go getting yourself killed. I don't wanna lose my best bitch."

He looped his arm back around her shoulders, but this time pulled her close and rubbed his knuckles on the top of her head. "Aw, babe, you care about me!"

"Not if you don't get the hell off me!"

The fight quickly escalated, and soon the manager actually did come over to kick them out.

If Charlie saw something on the news that night about a coffee shop being blown up, he'd deny any involvement. But if she did put him on probation again, well. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

* * *

He wasn't caught and he wasn't put on probation. Some turf war on the other side of town got so big it bumped his and Cherri's stunt off the air completely. Despite that, Angel found himself hanging around the hotel almost as often as he had been. He went to work at the studio, took Nuggets for walks around town, had some fun with Cherri, and spent a night or two dragging in the club, but he was never gone more than a day. He almost always made it to meals, and he never missed his time with Alastor. And Cherri didn't get it.

There weren't a lot of things he couldn't share with his best girl buddy. She knew all the gory details of half the guys he's slept with, and all the ones he didn't get paid for. She heard all his complaints about Val and the studio and refused to listen to all the ways he'd try to excuse them the second the anger melted away into fear. She'd be with him the instant he hit up her hellphone, ready to blow up his problems or join him getting fucked up enough to forget them, no questions asked either way. She knew about his family, about what got him into hell, about the mafia and the bars and the rules and the men whose hands did wander enough to find out just how dangerous a twink in drag could be, but there were a few things he couldn't tell her. How, exactly, he'd found himself in hell was one. Apparently, Alastor was another.

It had hurt enough to keep the dress a secret. She'd caught his slip-up about the gift, because of course she did, and hounded him as much as Charlie. He couldn't bear lying to her or telling her to fuck off, but he sure as hell couldn't actually tell her about it. Did anybody have any idea how hard it was to describe a dress vaguely enough that it didn't sound like a dress, but in enough detail to satisfy a huge fucking gossip? Because he did now, and it was fucking hard.

But what hurt worse? Realizing he couldn't tell her _anything_ about Alastor. She couldn't understand how Angel enjoyed hanging out with hell's deadliest sinner. She couldn't understand that he was afraid, but not of Alastor. Not of getting hurt, not anymore. She couldn't understand what they had, because she wasn't _there_, because Angel could barely understand it even though he _was_. She'd think he was suicidal. She'd think it was Val all over again, but Alastor was the opposite of Valentino.

Alastor would threaten Angel, claim to hate him, claim he was one wrong move from being erased, but he never made good on the threats. Alastor did things for him and asked for nothing in return. Al gave him chance after chance, leniency after leniency, and never once gave so much as a warning smack with that microphone pimp cane of his. And Val would never threaten, never with words, because Angel already knew the consequences of disobeying. And Val would tell Angel how much he cared for him when no one else did, but every favor came with the harsh reminder of how much Angel owed, by how much he was _owned_. Shit, if he said he wanted to dress Valentino up, his good eye would be fucked worse than the bad one, but Smiles took it all in stride.

But he didn't need to be thinking about all that now. Not when he'd been thinking about it off and on all week. Not when every glance in the Radio Demon's direction brought the thoughts back up until he pushed them down so he could concentrate on the benefits of different blends of thread or just how much seam allowance was necessary for a dress shirt. Not when Alastor was standing right in front of him, looking expectantly at the bag that held the finished dress.

"Alright," Angel found himself saying, "so I know I said we'd do a full makeover, but honestly you already have, like, everything I'd do for you."

He tilted his head. His ear gave that little twitch of confusion he usually tried to hide. "Oh?" he said curiously, "And what would you have done?"

"Y'know, eyeshadow, lipstick, but you're already wearing it."

His smile remained puzzled. "I see," he said, neither confirming nor denying the observation.

"And I could do something with your hair, but I think the bob with the undercut is pretty cute the way it is. I mean, I guess I could curl it for somethin' a little more period-appropriate, but—" Alastor laughed. Angel squinted at him. "What's so funny about that, huh?"

"Nothing at all." Angel could still hear the laughter in his voice.

"Don't sound like nothin'."

He shook his head. "I simply never thought anyone would suggest I _curl_ my hair. I've always been advised to do quite the opposite."

"You got curls naturally?"

"No matter." The humor was gone in an instant, replaced with his usual grin. "Please, do continue."

"Right," he said, then immediately blanked. Shit, what was he saying? All he could think of was what Alastor would look like with curls. Were they tight, or more wavy? Did that mean he was a fucking ginger? "Uh, so, I'm not gonna mess with your face and hair and shit, you'd probably hate that anyway, and flat-chested was kind of the look, back when…but, uh. I got some jewelry to go with the dress, it's in the bag. I'd've picked some shoes too, but. You know. I didn't know if they'd fit, so."

Angel held the bag in front of himself lamely. Al reached for it.

"Wait!" Angel said just as Alastor's claws brushed the bag. "One more thing. You can't just snap it on."

He tilted his head again, now less confused and more curiously indignant. His smile brought to mind an overworked cashier silently plotting murder. "Can't I?"

"Well, I mean, I don't really care how you get the dress on," Angel said, "but don't just throw it on out here, y'know? You gotta do a reveal, have a nice red-carpet walk. Feel like a movie star."

"I'd prefer not to, actually. You know I'm not a fan of picture shows."

He crossed his arms. "I demand a runway walk, Smiles."

"Oh, you demand it, do you?" Alastor's eyes flashed, a dangerous edge reaching his voice.

"I demand it," Angel repeated.

The glow disappeared. "Well, in that case!" He plucked the bag delicately from Angel's hands with two claws and turned towards the bathroom. "I'll see you on the red carpet, my dear!"

The door clicked shut and Angel was left with his thoughts again. Rather than continue to obsess over whatever friendship he had with the Radio Demon and what that could possibly mean for him, he chose to use his brain power more productively by shuffling though every combination of curl texture and color he could think of and imagining them all on Alastor's head. He made it from wavy and blonde to raven corkscrew curls when the lights went out. The room was pitch black until a single spotlight shone on the bathroom door. Music began to play, something very Vaudeville but with hints of old burlesque style. A rug—red, of course—rolled out by itself to the couch where Angel sat. Goddamn drama queen. Al would be good at drag.

The bathroom door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness, until Alastor stepped out.

And he was gorgeous.

The dress looked as natural on him as his suit. It fell loosely around him down to his calves, hiding that wasp waist that first started the gears turning in Angel's head, but the silhouette worked. A lack of sleeves rounded his bare shoulders. The drop waist disguised his narrow hips. The long pearl necklace and wrap-skirt detail below a black faux-belt pulled attention exactly as they should. And more than that, as he strolled down the red carpet twirling his cane, he looked so incredibly comfortable. Every trace of awkwardness from the fitting had melted away.

"Work it, Al!" Angel whooped. "God, you walk like such a man, move your fuckin' hips!"

Rather than laugh and joke back, as Angel expected, Alastor paused in his walk. When he continued, the skirt moved with a distinct swing as he stepped with one leg directly ahead of the other. Angel wolf-whistled.

"And spin!"

Again, he complied, turning on one leg to do a second walk. God, the skirt twirled so beautifully. And so did Alastor. His hair fanned out around his face just like the skirt, around that _smile…_

Angel let Alastor live his runway fantasy a while longer, but his own anticipation was killing him. He stepped onto the red carpet when Al made it back to the end. "You get a good look yet? C'mon, check yourself out!"

With an easy grin, Alastor allowed himself to be led to the mirror, though Angel did more shooing than leading in respect of the five-foot rule. He waved to the mirror with a flourish.

"Ta-da!"

And with no warning at all, that easy smile went stiff. The music cut off with a record scratch. Static took its place, screeching and increasing in volume every second. His eyes weren't glowing, weren't turned into slits like the dials of a radio, but they were locked unblinkingly onto his reflection.

"Smiles?" Angel asked. He resisted the urge to grab Alastor's arm, desperate to help but knowing that would make everything worse. God, what the hell happened? How was he suddenly so uncomfortable when he was enjoying himself just a second before? "Al? What's wrong?"

The seconds ticked on. The static popped and crackled even more. Fuck, Angel never thought it would be this bad. He nearly reached out to grab Alastor's arm anyway, just to get any reaction other than the catatonic staring, but the static clicked suddenly. Unintelligible voices faded in and out like someone was searching for a channel. When words finally made it through, they didn't come from Alastor's mouth, and they weren't in his voice.

"_Oh, Al, you look jest like yer mama."_

* * *

The dress I imagined is somewhere between these two (on Etsy): /listing/616042609/1920s-flapper-dress-in-maroon-with-a

/ie/listing/527411034/red-flapper-dress-with-elbow-length

And! Someone drew fanart! This is _exactly_ what I imagined. If you like Alastor in a dress, give MortemVeniet on Reddit some love! /r/HazbinHotel/comments/f9vra8/from_to_sew_a_skirt_by_another_athena/

Anyway, wonder what all that's about? Guess we'll just need to wait and see. The final chapter will be out this weekend. As always, thanks so much for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.

(Also let me know if there's a better way to do links please? I don't know what I'm doing lol)


	11. Chapter 11

A little heavier on the implied/referenced homophobia and abuse and such this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 11: Starting Your Next Project

_"Oh, Al, you look jest like yer mama."_

The voice was rich, smooth, and honey-sweet with a heavy accent. It was definitely southern, but being a New Yorker, Angel wasn't familiar enough with the region to pinpoint a state.

Alastor slapped a hand over his mouth as if he had spoken instead of his radio aura, static cutting off sharply as he backed away from the mirror with eyes blown wide. His hoof got caught on the carpet sent him to the floor, crumpling against the dresser like a fawn just learning to stand. He made no attempt to catch himself. He wouldn't release the grip over his mouth or on his microphone. He just stared at the mirror.

Okay, Angel could make some assumptions out of that. Maybe he wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but he could manage to put two and two together, and even if he wound up with five it was still pretty damn close. He heard this story before, even though it came after his time. Serial killer stories from up top spread fast in hell, since everyone liked to keep an eye out for celebrity sinners, and folks especially liked to bring this kind up to him considering his fashion choices. He'd heard about mothers who had sons they tried to make into daughters and wound up their boy's first victim right before he ran across the country cutting out people's eyeballs and shit. It fit, the sewing and cooking and the way he let Angel dress him up without fighting despite how much he hated it, even if he seemed to like it before…and of course, all those killers usually had a whole laundry list of shitty things in their life, but that fit, too, because of course Al wouldn't be like Valentino if he'd had a Val of his own, whether he was a pimp or an ex or the dad he never bothered to mention…

"Al," Angel said again, then cursed himself and started over _without_ using the nickname from his audible flashback. "_Alastor_," he said, and yeah, that got his attention. Red eyes finally broke from the mirror and snapped onto his face. "Yeah, hi. You good?" Angel didn't bother waiting for a response, since he figured whatever answer he got would be a lie anyway. "You don't need to—I didn't mean—you can take the dress off if you want," he settled on.

When Alastor took his hand off his mouth to pull himself to sitting up rather than leaning against a dresser, his smile was perfectly in place. "Once again," he said delicately, radio buzz very faint, "it's not the dress that I'm against."

"Is it me?"

"Not at all."

Angel held out a hand to help Alastor up all the way, which Al ignored, as expected. "I didn't mean to…force you into this."

"You never forced me."

"Well, no, but I kinda pushed and—"

"I didn't feel forced."

His tone left no room for argument. With a smile that could have been meant as reassuring but was mostly more worrying, Alastor snapped the room back to its pre-catwalk condition and headed towards the sewing cabinets.

"Well, that certainly was fun. Is there a new big project you'd like to start? Or would you like to stick to—"

"Al," Angel interrupted. He couldn't pretend nothing happened when he'd just seen the goddamn Radio Demon cower from his own reflection on the floor. Not when he was still wearing the dress even after it had obviously brought back some kind of nasty memory. He wasn't about to let this go. "I never wanted to make you do somethin' you didn't want to." He swallowed. "Not…not like your mom made you—"

That hit something. Alastor whipped around, bristling—as in, his hair and ears literally seemed to puff out a bit. "My mother never_ made me_ do anything but brush my teeth and bathe," he snapped. "Why is it that no one—!" He cut himself off, breathed shakily through his nose, and began again with more restraint. There was a growl in his voice. "_Nothing_ about what I became is her fault."

So maybe five wasn't close enough. Maybe Al's mom wasn't the root of the problem. He missed the mark already, so he should really leave it at that before he came up with three next and got himself kicked out. But if he stopped now… "Nothing?" Angel prompted, "nothing at all?"

"Nothing that you're implying. The only thing that's her _fault_ is how I became a radio host with her encouragement. I blame my mother for nothing but my success."

"Right," Angel said, "because that totally explains why you fell on your ass when you heard her voice. Makes sense."

Angel never got a good look at Alastor's face when he took down the blimp, but he figured this was close. He looked murderous. His hair puffed more and his ears were pinned back against his head, making his antlers look bigger. A lot bigger. Didn't they only have two points each before? They couldn't grow that fast, could they? Angel nearly reconsidered his lack of fear, but all at once, Alastor deflated. His hair fell flat and his ears popped back up, smile loosening. He sat down on the couch with his legs crossed daintily at the ankle and tapped the cushion with his microphone. "Sit."

"…sure," Angel said after a too-long pause. He sat at the very edge. "So, what…why did…are you—"

"Hush."

"—yeah, okay."

He shut his stupid fucking mouth and just listened. The static was back, very quiet, interspersed with words and music. Alastor was channel surfing, best Angel could guess, but maybe he should stop guessing. The static clicked, settled, and spit out a full sentence.

_"Oh, Al, you look jest like yer mama."_

Angel whipped around to look at Alastor, expecting to find him frozen again, but his eyes were closed as he sunk into the cushions. Relaxed. Angel relaxed, too. Without the heavy static, it was easy to hear the love and care in the tone.

_"F'true! Where'd you find it? I been havin' dat dress but I ain't seen it around since—"_

The woman's voice cut out with a hitch, as if something were stuck in her throat.

_"Yeah. Since yer father."_ She was quiet for just a second. _"You look a lot like him, too." _Then she continued again, just as cheerful as she started. _"C'mon now, sha, betcha we can find somethin' that fits a little better in th' locker. Don't want you trippin' yerself."_

With a sound like a tape ejecting, the memory ended. Alastor opened his eyes. "Does that explain?"

"Not really," Angel said, because he completely lacked the ability to quit while he was ahead or process anything he'd just heard, "I mean, you say she's great, and she sounds pretty great, so why'd you…" He pointed his thumb at the mirror and dresser. "Y'know?"

He dug his claws into his bare arms. "That was the first time I heard her voice in almost one hundred years."

"Oh," he said, feeling dumb. "…she made it to Heaven, then?"

"Considering I haven't yet found her here, I choose to believe so. I vastly prefer that concept to the alternative."

"Oh. Shit."

Not bothering to comment, Alastor leaned his elbows onto his knees. He stared ahead, eyes locked somewhere around the seam where the wall met the floor but obviously not really seeing it. His claws sunk deeper into his skin.

"Tell me about her?" Angel asked quietly.

It seemed for a moment that he'd refuse, but he saw Angel's request for the offer it was. "She was a good woman," he said. "She always did her best for me, all on her own. If anyone deserves Heaven, it's her." His eyes fell shut. "And she was patient, endlessly so. I was…a bit of a wild child, but rather than scold me for ruining my clothes and tracking in mud, she just patched me up and taught me how to fix my own clothes, and then we'd cook together. It was good for me, I think, a way to channel all that energy I had into something productive…" He chuckled. "She had a sewing club of her own, a few ladies from town who joined her once in a while to work on little projects, or perhaps they were other seamstresses and she had a sort of guild, I never asked. But they thought it very novel to see a young man doing women's work, so I sewed with them and listened in on all their gossip…until I was made to start school, that is."

Now that was a story Angel knew he was familiar with. "Didn't get along well with the other kids?"

"No, not at all. I was never a very social child, not with other children, but I tried at my mother's request. No one particularly cared for my company. I didn't mind, but the teacher was very concerned, mostly because I had attempted to play with the girls as well as the boys." His smile turned sardonic. "And the teacher talked, and the sewing club talked, and the whole town talked until they decided there had to be a man in the house or I'd certainly turn out poorly."

"And in came stepdaddy," Angel predicted, "and you weren't allowed to play dress up anymore."

"Or sew," he added, "or cook, or ask questions, or do much of anything but my chores and hunting. He had to make a _man_ out of me."

Though Alastor spoke casually, Angel could hear the bitterness in his tone, see the dark blood beading under his nails. He was entitled to so much more than just bitter. He'd been robbed. "I'm sorry," Angel said.

"Oh, don't be." The bitterness was gone and he was that peppy radio announcer all over again. "Just a few years of that and I was old enough to be the man of the house myself. All that practice with a rifle certainly came in handy then! And I went right back to sewing and cooking as often as I pleased. Why, the first thing I did was make boudin. Usually you'd use pork, but it tasted nearly the same, and my mother and I thoroughly enjoyed—"

"But no more dress up?"

Alastor carefully extracted his claws from his skin and lifted his staff, examining the microphone. He was even more careful not to look in Angel's direction. "No, no more dress up," he said. "I was the man of the house then, Angel. I had no time for such childish nonsense."

_But you wish you had_, Angel wanted to say, but didn't. Al liked to fill silences when you let him, so he let the quiet hang on the off chance that his rambling would stay on-topic for once.

"Because that's what it was," Alastor continued after a moment. He stood and walked around the room, twirling his staff as he went. His skirt swung with every step. "Childish. I was a child playing at being grown up. I couldn't help that the only adults I cared to emulate happened to wear dresses. And why was it so shameful for a boy to aspire to be like his mother? A little girl puts on her father's boots and it's adorable, but—"

"But a boy tries his mama's heels and he's a goddamn queer," Angel finished. "I know, Al. It sucks. I'm sorry."

He stopped pacing behind the couch. Angel leaned back to get a look at his face. His smile was soft. "My mother never let me wear her heels. She said I'd twist my ankle."

"…would you want to try some?"

"Somehow I don't think that would work."

Hooves, right. But that wasn't a problem. "They'd just have to be boots, like mine. I got these made special. Wouldn't have to be this tall though," he added quickly, "you could just get a little pair of ankle booties, or something mid-calf."

"I would match your height then, wouldn't I?"

"Nah. I'd just get higher heels."

"Of course you would."

He seemed to consider the idea, but Angel didn't have the patience to let him think, not with his own mind racing. He turned himself around to sit on his knees, facing Alastor. "What does it feel like, for you?"

"Pardon?"

"Wearing the dress," he said. "Like, for me, it's just…I'm comfortable. I like the attention and shit, but mostly it just feels good. It feels like I'm bein' me."

"I feel childish," Alastor said after a moment, "but not in a negative way. Nostalgic, I think. Have you done any acting other than with Valentino? It's like playing a character, but one that feels close."

"God, you'd be good at drag."

"Ha! No."

"You could if you wanted to, you know," Angel offered. He propped his elbows onto the back of the couch and leaned his chin on his arms. "It wouldn't have to be, like, a big thing. You make your persona and head out to a club, drink, maybe perform or maybe just watch somebody else. Nobody'd ever know it was you. I'd make sure of it."

He shook his head. "No, my flashy friend, I couldn't stand one of your clubs."

"Wouldn't have to be one of my clubs. You got a place you go? Somewhere old fashioned that plays jazz and shit?"

"Forget it, my dear." Alastor stepped out from behind the couch. He passed the mirror, eyes lingering for a moment, then snapped himself back into his usual attire. The dress sat folded on the table. "This was rather entertaining, I must admit, but it's time to move on." He opened the nearest cabinet. "Now, how would you feel about a blazer for your next project? It's rather finicky with the darts and the lapels, but…"

Angel let him chatter. He'd pushed too much too quickly. Fine. Al could deflect for now, but he couldn't ignore it forever.

Angel wouldn't forget.

* * *

And that's it! That's the end! Thank you all so much for reading. I never expected I'd get this kind of response for my silly little sewing story. I'm so glad you all liked it!

But that was a bit of a cliffhanger, wasn't it? It sure would be a shame to end like that...if there wasn't a sequel in the works! I'm working on some other stuff too at the moment (just a few oneshots as a break from serial writing), so it might be a little while. But keep an eye out for it, and in the meantime, here's a sneak peek!

* * *

"Hey Smiles!"

Alastor turned around on the barstool. He squinted for a moment, brow wrinkled and head tilting in confusion, but quickly recovered. "Angel! Good to see you, my dear fellow. I barely recognized you! A bit dressed up to work on a blazer, aren't we?" Behind him, Husk retreated to the other end of the bar before Al could remember he was there.

Angel fluffed his wig and strutted over. "'Cause I ain't Angel tonight," he said, kicking out a stool to sit on, "and I ain't sewin', either."

"Oh." Alastor's disappointment, subtle as it was, was nearly enough to make Angel call the whole thing off. "I see. Then who are you tonight, my dear, and what kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?"

"Angela. And the kind you don't want to hear anything about."

"I don't know why I expected anything different."

"But seriously," Angel said, "sorry for the short notice."

"Oh, don't apologize, my flaky fille!" His smile was just wide enough to be fake. "Well, don't let me keep you. Have fun doing whatever it is you do."

Flaky. Ouch. But he ignored the jab and powered through. "Actually, I had a question for you, Smiles. You remember that friend of yours?"

"Friend?" he asked.

"Y'know, the flapper chick. She came to sew with us the other day, looked hot as hell in that dress?"

Recognition passed over his face, and so did thinly-veiled annoyance. "I believe I know who you're referring to, yes," he said grudgingly.

"I was hopin' you could get me her number, she seems real fun to party with."

"I believe she already made it clear she had no interest in your sort of partying."

Angel laughed into the back of his hand. "I ain't stupid! I know she's a classy lady. I found a nice speakeasy 'round the border of lust and envy. Some big-name jazz folks are playin' in about a week, seemed like somethin' she'd be into."

"I see," he said again. He reached around blind to grab his glass and took a drink. "I will…talk to her."

"Great!" He bounced up and started for the door. "And see if she can make sewing club tomorrow, yeah? She was a real gas!"

As Angel strutted off, Husk apparently gave up on wanting to be ignored. He filled up Al's glass without being asked. "Mimzy sews?"

"No," Alastor said, standing. He ignored his new drink. "No, she doesn't."

* * *

And, as always, thank you so much for reading! All comments, critiques, predictions, and exclamations of "I called it!" appreciated.


End file.
